


Don't You Know Who I Think I Am?

by the_chaotic_panda



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Dystopia, Inspired by Black Mirror, It'll be fun I swear, M/M, Smut, but like...a bad version, not like the last time, scientist pete
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-06-30 06:06:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 63,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15745800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_chaotic_panda/pseuds/the_chaotic_panda
Summary: The year is 2029. Memories have become a commodity. The rich live long and satisfying lives - the poor die young and empty. In a business founded upon lies, Patrick and Pete search for one thing - the truth.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SnitchesAndTalkers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnitchesAndTalkers/gifts).



> Happy Birthday! Here's my pound of flesh. It's putrid, smelly and covered in maggots. Enjoy! 
> 
> [Thanks to Hum My Name and semi_sweet for listening to me rant about this for the past forty years]
> 
> Stick with me on this one, guys. I promise, good things are on their way...

“I’m sorry, young man, but I simply can’t help you,” the doctor says as he attempts to shut the door on Patrick’s foot.

“Please,” Patrick cries, prying the door back open and shoving himself between it and the frame. “Please, just one more. Just take one more, it’s a real good one, I swear.”

“I’ve told you before; if you make an appointment and a hundred-dollar deposit, I can take whatever you like.”

“I can't spend that much!” Patrick exclaims, “just take it off the profit! Please, my dad’s really ill, I need this!”

“I’m afraid it’s against company policy. No deposit, no surgery. And, with all due respect, what you’re selling isn’t exactly high-quality.” He looks down his bespectacled nose at Patrick, a wince pulling at his face. Lots of people look at Patrick like that. He sweeps his rotting cap off his head.

“Please, it's a good one! I met this guy, I really like him, I -”

“Young man, I -”

“We had sex, it was my first time, I -”

“Patrick,” the doctor finally sighs, and Patrick's running mouth slows to a jog. “Lying will get you nowhere. You sold me your first time months ago. Don't think I don't remember.”

Patrick chews on his lips, his mind frantically sifting through effective responses. “I - well, no one has to know that,” he says quietly, “you could - you could just say that it's the first time, it kind of felt like it anyway, please, I really need the money, my dad’s gonna die if I don't -”

“No,” the doctor says, “I won't put my professional integrity on the line for a child who doesn't have the good sense to get a job.”

“I _have_ a job, it's just not _enough_ -”

“I'm sorry, Patrick,” the doctor says, with a finality that makes Patrick's heart nose-dive to his toes, “I can't help you.”

He knows when he's defeated. He steps back, barely flinches as another door is slammed in his face. Dr. Hurley was his last chance. It's dark now, chilled wind clawing at his extremities, whistling through rows of immaculate glass houses and the tongues of passers by who know he shouldn't be in this neighbourhood. He shoves his hat back onto his head and shivers, his body lost in the too-big coat Mrs. Novak gave him when she saw him beaten by cops for begging in a restricted area.

As he walks - fast enough to seem like he has somewhere to be, slow enough that he won't seem like he's stolen something - he tries not to think, to dwell, to despair. He simply keeps his eyes down, where they belong.

-

“Okay so - so I’m in this fucking - this fucking bar, right? I mean - it’s not a bar, it’s like - y’know, _a gentleman’s club_ , or whatever, whatever the fucking politically correct term is. And this chick, right, she’s fucking - she’s _hot_ , she’s got these tits like you wouldn’t believe, but, like, kinda classy, y’know?”

He takes a sip of whiskey. It’s expensive, it burns. Dozens of eyes follow his movements.

“Anyway - she says she’s not that kind of girl, but I know she is - there’s no prudes in a whorehouse, right? So I’m being a gentleman, yeah, pretending the night isn’t gonna end with me blowing my load over her rack, wondering how little I can pay her without being insulting. But then she’s like, _do I know you from somewhere?_ Here we fucking go. _What’s your name?_ ”

-

“Patrick Stump,” he says, wide-eyed. “I - I only crossed the border ‘cause I had a - a doctor’s appointment!”

“Yeah, right,” the soldier spits, tightening his grip on Patrick’s arm. “What have you stolen?”

“Nothing!” Patrick cries, “Search me! Nothing!” He holds up his arms, and the man glares as he pats him down. The gun at his side brushes Patrick’s hip. Patrick holds his breath.

“What’s this?” the man asks, pulling out Patrick’s wallet, “Where’d you get it?”

“It’s mine,” Patrick says, “it’s got my ID in it. Look, look,” he pleads, pointing to the plastic window, “it’s me.”

“How do I know that’s you?” he asks, and Patrick bites his lip to keep from screaming.

“That’s my face,” Patrick replies slowly, “that’s literally my face right there.”

“Don’t look much like you,” the soldier grumbles, tapping his fingers against the tiny image of Patrick on the card. It looks as disgruntled as three-dimensional Patrick feels.

“Please - I was just _walking_ ,” Patrick says, his heart leaping into his throat when the final word comes out with far too much cheek. “I was just walking.”

The man looks at him, his hand fisted in Patrick’s coat and his lumpy nose an inch from Patrick’s. “You better keep walking, kid,” he growls, a fleck of saliva landing near Patrick’s eye. “Unless you want your brains all over this street.”

There used to be a time when Patrick would have laughed at that. Cops couldn’t just kill people, let alone kids. He’d simply pout and plead and walk away. But the soldiers - they’d put a bullet in anyone for looking the wrong way. The man doesn’t let go; first, he pushes the gun into Patrick’s cheek, then he breathes a stinking breath into Patrick’s face. Then, he takes the notes from Patrick’s wallet.

“No - no,” Patrick says, “I need that. That’s mine, I swear.”

“It’s mine, now,” the soldier grins. “Sorry, kid.”

“No - please, I need it, that’s a week’s wages, please -” he snatches for it, but the soldier slams the gun into the side of Patrick’s face and sends Patrick’s world spinning. He throws Patrick’s empty wallet to the floor, and Patrick himself quickly follows.

“You better hope I don’t see you around,” the soldier calls back to him as he strides away.

“Hey -” Patrick cries after him, “you can’t just - what am I supposed to do?!”

-

“Get fucked, I told her. ‘Cause she was whispering a fuck-ton of fucking _filthy_ stuff in my ear, she was all over me, and some of this was like _dirty_ , dirty, y’know - she really fucking wanted me, but I didn’t wanna get into anything too hard, y’know, I had a conference in the morning and all that. So I just - I give her five hundred dollars and tell her I want her for the evening. And - like, yeah, I can see you nodding, you know where this is going - she knows my name and the size of my penis. This is fucking dangerous, she could ruin me with one stingy retelling, my reputation would be fucked! And, yeah, there's the fact that I'm in a whorehouse, but this is politics; they only call it the White House ‘cause they couldn’t get the spunk off the walls.”

A shout of drunk laughter runs around the group. He grins around at them all.

“So anyway, I fuck her. It was fucking good, too, she let me do her from behind, great ass on her. She asks to stay the night - wants to _domesticate_ me or whatever, they all do - and I say no. So she sucks me off - couldn't say no to that - then she leaves. It's all good, right?”

-

 _Wrong_! the screen flashes.

It's not wrong. Patrick's typed in his coupon code five times now. It's not fucking wrong.

“ _Fifteen dollars and fifty-seven cents,_ ” the machine says.

“Can I help you, sir?” an assistant asks. Her smile says _welcome_ but her eyes say _get the fuck out of here, you shitstain_. Patrick grimaces at her.

“I just - it won't accept my coupon?” He holds out the little plastic square.

“Oh - that's because we don't accept those anymore,” she says.

“But - you've always accepted them. I was here last week, I -”

“ _Fifteen dollars and fifty-seven cents_ ,” the machine says.

“Sorry, sir.” Her face is blank. Patrick has a terrible feeling he's looking at his future - a person without enough memories to sustain a soul. He shuffles away from her slightly.

“Well - what’re you replacing them with?”

“We’re not replacing them,” she replies shortly. “Sorry, sir.”

“No, no, but - these are government issued, I get three a week -”

“ _Fifteen dollars and fifty-seven cents_ ,” the machine says.

“I can't pay that,” Patrick begs, “someone took all my money, I need this, I -”

“As of two days ago, your coupons are no longer accepted. Perhaps you forgot,” she says sweetly. Patrick wants to cry.

“Please, just accept them one last time. Or - or mark these as faulty, or _something_ , just help me out, please,” he tries, clutching the ready meals to his chest.

“I'm sorry, sir,” she says. His eyes flick towards the door. He almost makes a run for it - but a soldier hovers in the white lights, his hand resting on his gun. Patrick puts the meals down. He has no idea what he’ll tell his mum.

-

“ _Tell her she's had her fun, but now it's time to climb out of my ass_ , that's what I say to my assistant when this girl keeps turning up all over the place. Turns out, she's threatening to spill. She wants - fucking, something crazy. Ten million or something. I tell Andy to give her ten. She did not appreciate that,” he laughs, shaking his head.

“Did you pay her to shut up?” someone asks, some man with some stupid suit on who's sipping on a martini.

“Nah. Do I look like the kind of guy who gives into pressure like that? No, I sent a few of my guys round there. Took the memory right out her pretty little head. Crisis averted.” He enjoys the glee on their faces for a few seconds, then looks out of the window at the city crawling below in an effort to seem unimpressed with their attentions. Even the skyscrapers look up at him.

-  
  
The rats peer down at Patrick. They scuttle around the staircases of spiralling tower blocks, a scarecrow of cities on top of cities. Patrick's home is somewhere in the middle of the mass of corrugated iron and questionable timber, a government-issued plastic pod inside each that they all quickly learnt couldn't withstand a season of acidic rainfall.

He can't go home empty handed. He eyes the old men that shuffle past him, wondering if any of them would give him twenty dollars for a blow job. He's never actually prostituted himself, never quite had the guts to wear his tightest jeans and hang around in sleazy bars until someone slaps his ass and presses a wad of bills into his hand, or however it works. He's not pretty enough, not sexy enough, his shoulders too hunched and his eyes too stony.

Then he sees Isaac. Patrick’s fairly sure he's half in love with the boy, who paces ahead on the other side of the street. It's a pity he's not a girl - straight sex sells so much better - but other than that, Patrick thinks he's perfect. He's tall, his dark brown skin glowing golden in the light of the setting sun, his corkscrew hair begging for Patrick's fingers.

“Isaac!” he calls, crossing the street and jogging to catch up to him. If there's anything he needs right now, it's a hug.

“Oh - hey, Patrick,” he says, “I was gonna -”

He's cut off when Patrick wraps his arms around him and squeezes tight, Patrick's eyes clamping shut, refusing to think about the dire situation he’s been landed in. He’ll invite Isaac over, they'll fuck very quietly and when they're cuddling afterwards, things won't seem so bad.

“You okay?” Isaac asks, pulling Patrick back and peering at his face. “Something happened?”

Patrick shakes his head. “Nah. I'm fine. Do you wanna come round later?”

“Uh -”

“My mum doesn't mind. She likes you, she -”

“Patrick,” Isaac sighs, his hands gripping Patrick's shoulders. Patrick doesn't like his tone of voice. “I - I gotta talk to you.”

Patrick's stomach clenches. _No. No. Not today, please._ “Isaac, we’re good together, we really are, I really like you, I -”

“Patrick, Katya said you've been selling your memories of us,” Isaac sighs. “And - I'm not comfortable with that.”

Patrick's mouth flaps, guilt flooding his burning eyes. “I - I just - I needed the money, ‘Saac, my dad, he -”

“I know,” Isaac says, his face full of pity. He pulls Patrick over to a porch, takes his hands gently. “I know, ‘Trick, I get it. I'm not blaming you, you're only doing what you can for your family. We've all done it, but like - I just can't stand the thought of me and you being, like - _bought_ by some stranger.”

“I didn't actually sell any of us, I -”

“But you tried, didn't you. And you'll keep trying.”

It's true. He'd planned on showing up at the surgery tomorrow morning. He still plans to. He nods sheepishly.

Isaac smiles sadly. “I - I do like you, Patrick, you're really sweet, but like, I’ll just never be okay with you using me like that -“

“I wasn't using you, I swear, I never thought of it like that, I was just desperate and-”

“I know, okay, sorry, that wasn't the right word, but also like - there's no real connection between us, you know? I don't feel that spark.”

“Oh,” Patrick says. He'd felt a spark. He'd never felt so connected to someone. “Okay.”

“I'm really sorry,” Isaac says. He nearly looks it. “Like I just thought if you found someone else, they might be okay with it, y’know?”

“Yeah,” Patrick mumbles, feeling Isaac cup his face and tilt his eyes from the ground.

Isaac places a gentle kiss to his cheek and Patrick resists the urge to turn his head and push their lips together. “You'll find someone else, I know you will.”

-

“Bullshit,” he laughs, when someone says they're looking forward to his speech. “No-one enjoys this crap. Go talk shit to the plebs, yeah, that's a great idea. Can I get another whiskey?”

“I don't think that's wise, sir,” Andy tells him, somehow appearing from nowhere in his peripheral vision. “You’ve got a half hour until your speech. Hair and makeup will want to see you.”

He scoffs. “Whatever. Any cute makeup chicks?”

Andy glowers. “I - didn't think to look, sir.”

“Fine,” he sighs dramatically, “I'll rate their tits out of ten myself, then.”

The group of people who perpetually surround him laugh. He doesn't know them, and he probably doesn't like them, but hell if it isn't nice to have a live-in studio audience.

“Now where's that whiskey?”

-

The gutter is where Patrick's headed. The elevator broke months ago, so he must slither through the concrete ditches and duck under bent metalwork to reach the staircase. It's begun to rain, soaking through Patrick's jeans and pulling his hair into dark, lank strands. He doesn't mind, though - the rain hides the tears.

His mother knows, though. He tries to conceal it, to smile as he comes through the door and reassure her that everything is okay, everything is always okay, they're always just one step away from prosperity and he can feel good things coming their way. Instead, when the door slides open and his mother appears, he promptly bursts into a fresh round of sobs, falling into her arms and hugging her tight.

“It's okay, baby,” she cooes, and Patrick almost believes her. She takes him into the heart of the pod, decorated with bits of carpet and wallpaper to hide the endless white interior, and sits him down on their sagging couch, cuddling him close.

“Mum - the - the - none of the surgeries accepted my - my - and then - and the store stopped the coupons and - and - and a soldier took my wages and - I don't know what we're gonna - what we’re gonna do - we don't have any food, I - I -”

“Shh,” his mother soothes, stoking a hand through his hair. “It's okay, sweetie. It'll be okay.” She smells of cleaning fluid and pasta. Patrick breathes her in. “You can try again tomorrow, or the next day.”

“But what about food? We - we needed the meals, and now - now we won't get them, and dad won't get what he needs and -”

“Let me worry about your father,” she says, brushing his sodden hair out of his face and helping him out of his coat. “It's macaroni night, don't forget.”

Patrick's world brightens at that. Saliva fills his mouth at the thought of cheese sauce and - well, they've been too poor for garlic bread for a few years, now, but he can dream.

He cries into his mother’s chest for a few moments, thinking of everything he's lost, everything he will lose if they keep on like this, but eventually he finds himself simply listening to her breathing, feeling her chest rise and fall. He sinks back into childhood, an exhausted toddler dozing off in his mother’s lap, hearing her words of comfort and believing every one of them. Mum will make it all better.

He lets out a reluctant giggle as she begins to dab at his eyes with the sleeve of her cardigan. “Thanks, mum.”

-

“Thanks, _mum_ ,” he spits, swatting away the stylist who insists his tie should be as tight around his throat as she can wrench it. “Now fuck off and get me - I don't know, anything that takes you more than an hour to retrieve.”

She nods, leaves. He struts back to his chair, ruffled and petulant. “Lipstick?” one of the makeup artists asks, presenting him with a light pink that matches the colour of her bra strap.

“Yeah, whatever.” He doesn't mind this bit - in fact, he rather likes seeing his skin brushed smooth with powder and foundation, his cheeks touched with rouge and his chin painted to create the illusion of a jawline. She smothers his lips in pink whilst he decides whether to stare at her chest or his own reflection. He decides on the latter.

“Alright,” Andy tells him as they hover in the wings, “you know the drill. Sign some autographs, smile, talk loud. They know you, they know what this is about.”

Someone hands him an earpiece and he shoves it into place, smoothing down the front of his jacket. He's not nervous, he never is. It's just another story to tell, another anecdote to laugh about over whiskey.

Bodyguards loom behind him, and he can hear the roar of the crowd beyond, glimpse flashes of red, white and blue. “Alright. Chin up, back straight, arms by your sides,” his stylist fusses, tilting his face upwards and snapping her fingers in front of his eyes. “Focus. Now, are you good?”

He nods, sucking his belly in and puffing his chest out.

“Good.” She looks towards the stage manager, who holds up a finger. “Ready - set - “

-

“Go,” his father sighs at him. “Just go, Patrick, go eat with your mother.”

“But dad,” he sniffs, still tearful at the sight of his frail father and the knowledge that he has no way of helping, not without a full wallet and a stocked refrigerator. “I'm sorry, I tried - I - they wouldn't take the coupons, I - “

“It's okay,” his dad tells him, ghost-white hand reaching to grab Patrick's forearm. Patrick resists the urge to flinch away, to snatch his arm back. His father has become the monster under his bed, the skeleton in his closet, sparking childlike fear within him. He loves him - there's nothing in the world he could want more than his father’s good health - but his washed out eyes and sunken face, Patrick can hardly bear to look at. “I'll be fit as a fiddle in no time.”

Patrick smiles, forces himself to meet his dad's gaze. “Sure you will.”

The man's bleached lips twist into a scar of a smile, and he lets go of Patrick's hand. “Now go eat. And don't worry yourself, your mother and I will sort everything out.”

Nodding, Patrick shuffles away, revulsion propelling him from his father and guilt pulling him back. Patrick shuts the door once he's left the room - he can't bear the smell of it, the sounds his father makes in the night. Macaroni replaces stale breath and decay. He breathes it in.

It tastes even better than it smells, and he savours every bite, the feeling of a hot meal filling his empty belly like no other.

“Isaac broke up with me,” he tells his plate, once he’s scraped up every last smudge of cheese sauce. It hasn’t quite sunk in yet - he’s got no-one to kiss or fuck or love anymore. His eyes are still puffy from earlier, and they well with fresh tears at the thought of sleeping alone.

His mother looks up at him shock dissolving into sadness. “Oh, sweetie,” she says softly, “I’m so sorry.”

“‘S fine,” Patrick mumbles, even though it really isn’t, “he said he didn’t feel a spark.” She doesn’t know about what he’s sold. She’d be devastated if she knew that he doesn’t remember his first kiss, his first date, his first night spent in someone’s else’s arms. Besides, he’s underage - he could be imprisoned for even trying to sell the contents of his mind.

“Well, it’s his loss,” she tells him, taking his hand and squeezing it in both of hers. “You’re a handsome, smart young man - anyone would be lucky to have you.”

He smiles at that, wiping his eyes on his snotty sleeves. He’s not sure where he’d be without his mum.

They spend the evening cuddled on the sofa, watching whatever’s showing on the only free TV channel. It’s easier not to worry when he’s acting like a child, his head on his mother’s chest as she strokes through his hair. Patrick’s a mummy’s boy, always has been - and they’ve only gotten closer since his dad’s health spiralled. They both know that soon, they’ll only have each other.

“I know you miss him, Patrick,” she says to him as she tucks him into bed. He burrows into the sheets, blinking up at her and nodding. “If you wanna talk about it, I’ll listen.”

He doesn’t. “I think I just wanna sleep,” he says. He’s left his phone in the lounge - he doesn’t want to read the pity texts. “But - thanks. Love you, mum.”

She smiles, places a kiss to his forehead. “I love you too, sweetie.”

-

“- _hate_ you, you fucking piece of shit, why don’t you just fucking die, why don’t you -”

A security guard drags the shrieking woman away from him. Her shouts are drowned by the cheers of the crowd. He smiles, shakes as many hands as he can reach, signs everything pushed his way and ends up with a marker pen that isn’t his. Flags are thrown, cameras flash. He bathes in it.

“- bastard! What about my kids, huh? What are they gonna eat when you -”

The man’s gone before he has the chance to smile in his face. He kisses a woman’s hand and she looks like she might cry with joy. Confetti is blown into his face, people hand him drawings and letters that he pretends he won’t dump in the trash like all the rest of them.

“- fuck you, where’s your fucking _humanity_ , you’ll _ruin_ us -”

He’s almost at the steps, the compère applauding along with the rest of the stadium. The man grins widely, slicked back hair and bright white teeth both shining under the reeling lights.

“What a reception!” he says, his voice booming over the crowd. “You already know who this guy is, but let me give him a proper introduction -”

Blood pulses in his ears at the anticipation of his name, the name scrawled across banners and printed on t-shirts, the name flooding through hearts and minds.

\- please, welcome to the stage, Mr. Patrick Stump!”

Mr. Patrick Stump waves to the crowd. Mr. Patrick Stump feels godlike power at his fingertips. .

“It’s an honour, sir,” the compère tells Patrick, clapping him on the back and flashing that chemical smile. “A real honour.”

Patrick returns the grin, but only has eyes for the podium, for the sea of adoring faces before him. “Thanks - it’s great to be here,” he says into the mic, and fresh cheers erupt around him. The autocue begins to roll. “You all know what I stand for. I stand for that flag right there -” he gestures to a huge star-spangled banner waved by a woman sitting on her partner’s shoulders. “And I stand for the people beneath it. I’m one of you,” - except richer and more attractive - “and I want to give you - the great American people - the power.”

He spouts whatever the screen feeds him. He knows when to stop and smile, when to make sweeping hand gestures, when to pause for laughter. The lights sustain him the way the sun sustains a lizard. The rush, the roar of the crowd fuels his speech, carries him to the climax of his final statement.

“Now - here’s what I’ve been leading up to. You might have guessed it - I’ve always been outspoken about my objectives, always will be - but I wanted to wait for the right time. That time is now. I stand before you today to announce my candidacy for President of the United States of America.”

The crowd chants his name. The world kneels at his feet. He's already won.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for your support of the last chapter, I was so nervous uploading this but you guys left such lovely comments and I love you. A different perspective on things this week - all feedback is welcome!

_“- too announce my candidacy for President of the United States.”_

He can feel the joy of the crowd within him, his hands waving a flag and his voice chanting Stump’s name. Colours flash and the masses cheer - then there's a cut to Stump’s face, smiling wide and sunny with the words _“Make third party your first choice - vote Stump!”_

It ends as suddenly as it began - the cheers fading and Pete's vision swimming back to him. He's angry already - he's heard nothing but the news of some fucking trillion-dollar company putting forward a candidate and backing him with every penny they have. No one else has got a cat in hell’s chance of winning.

The number’s already popped up on the screen of his desk, waiting for him to pledge his support, and he swipes it away swiftly, searching instead for the complaints line. He's fucking done with _braintertainment_ or whatever the fuck they’ve dubbed it, and he intends to formally tell them that. He drums on the desk with his fingers until the usual semi-convincing robot answers him.

“Hello, customer, how can I -”

“I want to be removed from the advertising list,” he snaps, “or I swear to God I will sue.”

“I'm sorry, sir,” the sweet and uncaring voice of the machine tells him. “We’re unable to retract anyone from the list without authorisation -”

“And a completed immunity request, yes, I know. And I don't believe it for a second. I've had three of these fucking adverts in two days, and the last one was five minutes ago, while I was _working_ ,” Pete scathes, lining up his pens over and over again on the desk in front of him.

“If your employer complies with your request or the broadcasts are interfering with your health, a form can be found on our website that your employer or doctor may -”

“I _am_ a fucking doctor,” Pete all but yells, “and this _is_ interfering with my health, and indeed the health of my patients, who would rather like their heart surgery to go uninterrupted!” It doesn't need to know he's not a heart surgeon.

“The broadcasts are scheduled to run -”

“Out of my employment hours, yes, I know that, except one ran just now, didn't it?”

“Can I take your name, sir?” the robot asks. Pete lines up the pens so that they cover Stump’s stupid smiling face on the screen,

“Pete Wentz,” he sighs, “ _Doctor_ Peter Wentz.”

“Mr. Wentz - your working hours are nine a.m. until five-thirty p.m.”

“Yes, and?”

“It is seven sixteen p.m.”

Pete glances at the numbers in the centre of his desk. “...Oh. Well - I'd still like to be removed, please.”

“If your employer complies with your request or the broadcasts are interfering with your health, a -”

“Fine, you win,” he says, pressing the red button and scattering the pens to one side. He's left in silence, staring at the seconds ticking past. His office is a mess - folders spewing paper onto the floor, the cabinets baring their open maws to the room. He supposes there are some downsides to a paper filing system.

Reaching for his notebook on the desk beside him, he writes the time at the top of the page, followed by every detail of the phone call he can remember. The only exact sentence he recalls is the machine’s recital of the time. He really should be getting home.

The air outside still carries the warmth of the day, brushing through his hair as he sets the alarm and locks up the surgery. Joanna’s taking the weekend shift - he's got two whole days ahead of him in which to do nothing at all. He nearly vomits at the prospect.

He hurries to his car to avoid the people on the street - he can't stand the gazes of the homeless, can't bear to look them in the eyes and walk on, to say _I won't help you_ loud and clear. They can't afford to live, and he can't afford to help them do so. The only smile in the district is the one beaming down from star-spangled advertisements.

“Play The Smiths,” he tells the stereo as he collapses into the seat, “and take me home.” Around him, the vehicle shudders to life, pulling itself out from the bay and into the street. He shuts his eyes and his mind as This Charming Man surrounds him, beating in time with the rushing highway.

Home is dark, humid. His car pulls into the garage and switches itself off, leaving him lying in the shadows, considering the void of the weekend ahead of him. He both loves and loathes the silence - his thoughts are a dangerous thing to be alone with. He decides he'd like something to take his mind off it - he decides he's earned it.

“Take me to the drive-in,” he says in the general direction of the dashboard. The car lights up as if it shares his weary glee, pulls away as the garage door opens and slips back onto the street.

“Welcome to Rewind, what can I help you with?” the animated face on the screen says to him as he rolls down the window. He won't say it out loud - he doesn't want his voice on their records. He taps _manual selection._

The face disappears and a keyboard slides into view. He types in _adult_ , and _male perspective_. The usual selections appear; _female, male, multiple, other_. He taps _male_ quickly, as if he can kid himself his hand slipped. More categories appear; _oral, anal, frottage, multiple, other._

It's Friday night. He taps _anal_ \- completely by accident, of course. Then giving, and then when faced with _vanilla, BDSM, tantric, relationship, other_ , he taps his usual, sad preference - _relationship_.

The screen splinters into thumbnails depicting sloppy CGI likenesses of the couples in question. A muscled man with dark eyes and a dopey look on his face stares from the third image. Pete decides that he'll do. He taps the icon, scans his phone under the red light and pretends it never happened.

The tiny slip of metal drops from the dispenser, and Pete fumbles for it, ordering the car to drive on as soon as he gets his arm back through the window. It's not something he hasn't done before - everyone does it, greedily rummaging through other people's lives to find a good fuck. Pete holds the cartridge sheepishly - tries to ignore the slight hardness in his pants at the anticipation of sex - fake, stolen sex, but sex nonetheless.

He unlocks his door with flustered fingers and stumbles into the darkness of his apartment. It's just four rooms - lounge, kitchen, bedroom, bathroom - and every one of them is a mess, laundry littering the floors and groceries scattered across the counters.

The couch is the only available surface, so he wades over to it, clutching the memory in his hand and clearing a space for it on the coffee table. He sets it down with a small, metallic clink and fumbles for the notebook in his pocket.

_Bought memory,_ he writes, _19:49 pm from Rewind Drive-In, West Roosevelt Road. Anal sex with man, dark hair, muscled._ Then he closes the book, places the cap back on the pen, and stares at the square of metal on the coffee table. He's already semi-hard just thinking about it, so he undoes his tie and his pants and takes out his cock, laying back on the couch.

He picks the cartridge up with one finger, the mirrored side facing upwards and gleaming even in the low light. Then, he presses the square to his temple, and lets the electricity buzz through him. It's a strangely comforting feeling.

The first hit is always the strongest. The world around him dissolves into the fragile likeness of somewhere else, somewhere he's never been but remembers so vividly as he looks around.

It's a bedroom, light filtering through the blinds and sheets pooled around him. A man stands at the end of the bed, shirtless and illuminated in the yellowing dawn. Pete loves him, he feels it in his mind and body as he looks at the man.

“What?” the man laughs, shoving a t-shirt over his head and gazing at Pete.

Except he's not Pete, not for now - his body is pale, his tattoos have vanished. The voice that comes out of his mouth is deeper than his own, gruff with sleep as he replies, “Nothing. Just - y'know, _you_.”

The man grins, falls sideways onto the bed and rolls onto his stomach, looking at Pete with that same dopey expression that Pete based his decision to purchase upon. “You wanna go again?”

Pete nods. He's vaguely aware of the other things the man he's inhabiting is thinking about, things the doctors couldn't quite pry away from the memory; the fact that he has to go soon, that he'd like some breakfast. But then he's being kissed, and all other thoughts fly from his head.

He's not in control - can't urge the man's shirt off like he wants, can't moan of his own accord - but it's exquisite nonetheless. He feels the man's hair between his fingers, the man's tongue in his mouth, he’s soaked in someone else’s feelings but they all become his own.

It never gets old. The man slips inside him with practiced ease, kissing him deeply as they fuck. It's absolutely worth the extra thirty dollars he paid for _relationship_. He feels loved and in love. He feels like he never feels when living as himself.

But it ends too soon, as it always does. The man gives him one last searching kiss before the world begins to slip back into the grey, musty mess of Pete's living room. He grasps at cotton sheets and finds only the tack of faux leather, kisses at a mouth that vanishes into the air under his lips.

He breathes heavily into the silence, scraping a hand across his face. His brow is beaded with sweat, his shirt is ruined with stripes of come. He revels in it for a few moments, letting his pulse slow to its usual reluctant amble and his mind adjust itself to reality.

His hit is over. Now all he has is the memory of the memory, the faded feeling of loving and fucking someone he's never met. The metal square is rendered useless; the chemical treatments used to make the memory so potent, so tangible, only ever last for one reliving. He could get it reprimed if he wanted - but that would cost more than the memory itself. He tapes the square into his notebook and writes what he can remember, making sure to tell himself that _it’s fake, it’s fake_. He’ll have it removed if it ever begins to feel real.

The loneliness is the only part he seems able to forget each time he treats himself like this - the withdrawal always takes him by surprise when he crawls into bed with no-one beside him. He feels dumped, heartbroken, lusting after memories he never quite had hold of in the first place.

He sleeps restlessly, sporadically, dreaming of lips that aren’t real and love that isn’t his own.

-

“Fucking hell,” is the first thing Joanna says to him when he walks into work on Monday morning. “Fucking hell, you are not gonna be _lieve_ what I just got a fucking call about.”

She follows him like a hound, through the plain surgery corridors and into his office. The office. But his, really. He sets his bag down with a sigh and turns to her, braced for the onslaught.

“Okay, so you know Stump?” she says. It’s the happiest he’s ever seen anyone look when saying that name.

“Yes…”

“That was his - fucking, secretary, or something. I don’t know. But they’ve set up a meeting with us? Something to do with _gaining the support of local businesses_. Apparently he’s got a load of our competitors going too - MindDirect will be there. It’s just like ten minutes or whatever, but like - can you imagine that?”

Pete frowns. “Uh - can I imagine what on earth has made you so excited about this? No, I can’t.” He sits himself down in his chair and looks up at her expectantly.

“Pete - we might get to _meet the President_.”

“Not the President,” Pete interrupts, “and he’s probably not holding these meetings. In fact, I doubt he’s ever made a single phone call in his life. It’ll be one of his advisors, or something.”

“But on the offchance that it _is_ him -”

“I don’t have any desire to be on the same planet as that man, let alone in the same room,” Pete says curtly. He turns away from her and taps the screen of his desk until it springs to life.

“Pete. Pete, I don’t think you’re understanding me. We’ll get to meet him,” she persists, patting him on the shoulder in a way that makes Pete want to curl up into a shell he doesn’t have.

“So?”

“So,” she says, “we get to tell him he’s a dick _to his face_.”

  
Pete turns in his chair and looks at her, her face lit with the anticipation of pissing off the future President. “We’ll get kicked out. Or - shot, or something.”

“It’ll be worth it,” she nods, “and we’ll be fast. We could just walk in there, say _hello Mr. Stump, you’re a shitstain on the surface of the solar system_ and then walk out!”

“Very poetic,” Pete observes, “but I fear we’re not quite rich enough for that kind of behaviour to go unpunished.”

“Okay - worst case scenario, we get kicked out. It’s a laugh, we tell the story at parties for the rest of our lives. It’s still a win!”

“So what, pray tell, is the best case scenario?” Pete asks, turning his attention back to his desk as Joanna’s mouth flaps beside him.

“Well - I don’t know. We piss him off so much that he quits campaigning, falls into a deep depression and dies in pain and alone,” she shrugs.

“Tempting,” Pete muses, “but the best form of action here is no action at all. We refuse, and we don’t let him worm his way inside our heads.”

“But -”

“I don’t want to meet him, Joanna. He’s a tyrant, and I’m not going in there just to throw stones at a wasp’s nest. These damn commercials are doing my head in.”

“But - I’ve already said yes,” she says quietly. Pete whips round.

“You - you - well, you’re going, then. I’m sure as hell not coming with you.”

“Oh, come on, Pete, you wouldn’t let your poor, vulnerable business partner go all by herself, would you?”

Pete looks at her. She’s taller than him, bulkier than him, and can shout considerably louder than him. She needs his protection like she need’s Stumps fat hands around her throat. “Jo -”

“Don’t _Jo_ me, just say you’ll do it? Please? Pete,” she says, gazing at him with wide eyes. “This man is gonna ruin everything. When he gets into office, he’s going to take people like us and have them shot in the fucking street. When I’m in the firing line, I want to be able to say I told him to go fuck himself in person.”

The look in her eyes is one of desperate determination. Pete shakes his head, hunching over his desk. “He won’t do that. You’re being ridiculous.”

  
For that, he receives a swat to the head. “You don’t know that,” she says, “you just tell yourself that. Come _on_ , Pete, take some direct action for once!”

The first thing that pops up on his browser is Stump’s face, perfect smile sharpened by greedy eyes. Pete feels a curl of disgust deep in his gut.

“Fine,” he sighs, “fine. But I’m not talking to him. And if we’re dead in a week, I will be saying _I told you so_ as we fall into hell.”

Joanna tuts, but it's chased with a grin which Pete can't help but return. Despite everything he's said, he'd rather love to see her rip Patrick Stump a new one. He sure as hell deserves it. 

"Thank you," she says, like she knew he'd cave all along. "He's not going to know what's hit him."

-

Pete begins to highly doubt the logic behind this idea as they look up at the spiralling monstrosity that is the MANIACorp Tower. He's seen it from a distance, the glowing jut of the biggest ego in Chicago thrusting from the skyline. It eclipses everything around it, even the Romanesque homes of the super-rich. The itch of being absurdly out-of-place crawls over Pete's skin. 

"We're not dressed for this," he says, looking down at the nicest suit he owns and pulling at a loose thread in his tie. 

"Trust me, if we're forcibly removed, it won't be for our clothes," Joanna replies, but she's fidgeting in her too-big jacket and redoing the top button of her blouse. "So do you think we just- go in?" 

Pete looks towards the glass doors, the two security guards watching them with deep-set frowns. "I think so. We'll soon know if we're not welcome." 

They show their barcodes at the door, wait with baited breath as the bouncers look them up and down and decide if they're worth five minutes of the Great Mr Stump's time. Handcuffs glint at their belts and their buttoned jackets show the faint outlines of guns. Pete tries desperately to stop his hands shaking as they scan his phone. They're searched, their fingerprints and retinas scanned, their bodies swiped with a metal detector. Pete hates every second of it. 

Inside, the atmosphere is somehow even more oppressive. The carpet is purple, the receptionist's outfit is purple, the sofas are purple, the feature wall is purple, the bars of neon lining the doors are purple. A headache brews behind Pete's eyes. 

"Should I ask?" Joanna whispers as they approach the desk. " _ Hello, can we speak to the douche in charge? _ " she mocks. Pete decides that he may have to do most of the talking after all. 

"Save it for the man himself," Pete tells her. There's a framed portrait of Stump and his team behind the desk, Stump's pig-like face looking down at the room. Pete has a very, very bad feeling about this. "Uh - hi," he says to the receptionist, giving her a pathetic little wave. "I - we're here for the - uhm, meeting? We're business owners," he stammers.

"Tenth floor, waiting room's on your left," the receptionist drawls, barely looking up. 

"Okay, uh - thanks," Pete says, but Joanna's already dragging him away. 

"Stop being so fucking nice," she chides, "this is the mothership of bastards, remember?" 

"Yeah, but now they have my fucking  _ eye  _ prints, I don't wanna piss them off," he hisses back. They step into an elevator lined with glass and velvet.  _ Purple  _ velvet. Pete presses the lit number ten with reluctance, squirming with the thought that Patrick Stump has been in this lift, pressed that button, breathed this air. The building is an architectural virus - Pete feels infected already. 

When the doors open, they reveal an open space, framed with yet more glass and purple carpet. Business people are scattered throughout, some sipping coffee, others sifting through tablets. Pete recognises a few of them - his closest competitors, all lined up in the same room. His worst nightmare. 

"Don't make conversation," he pleads in Joanna's ear as they walk through the forest of suited, staring men and women. It's eerily quiet - Pete feels like he can sense each person breathing. They're all insects in the same fly trap. 

They find a couch to sit down in and huddle there, their eyes shifting to the opaque glass door that seems to be the focus of everyone's attention. After a few moments, it opens, and two men step out, sharing a swift handshake before parting ways. Neither of them is Stump. Pete's oddly disappointed. 

"Miss Jemima Lovell of Headfirst," the man says to the room, and a small woman shuffles forward, clutching a tablet to her chest. "Mr. Stump will see you now." 

The door is shut behind her. Pete casts a glance at Joanna - she's looking considerably less cocky. Pete watches her hands twitch in her lap, and after a moment of hesitation, gives her forearm a squeeze. "We're here to kick ass, remember," he whispers, and she throws him a half-hearted smile. "He's a flabby son of a bitch, you could take him easy." 

At that, she nods, the spark returning to her dark eyes. "Yeah, okay. We got this," she tells herself, giving Pete's hand a squeeze. 

People come and go from the room, some leaving with bright smiles, others with stormy frowns. Pete feels like he's about to sit his medical licensing exam again. The shakes have returned to his fingers when the man finally calls, "Miss Joanna Reed of Memory Lane?"

Pete sees her take a deep breath before she stands. He follows her as she walks through the crossfire of stares, resisting the urge to cower. The man at the door ushers them over the threshold, and with a hiss of sliding glass, they’re sealed inside a room with the biggest threat to US politics since 2016. 

“I’m Andrew Hurley, campaign manager,” the man - Mr. Hurley - informs them with a shake of both their hands. “I assume you’re a co-owner?” he asks Pete, and Pete can only absently introduce himself as he stares around at the office. 

The floor is marble - a deep purple veined with white - and a chandelier is draped across the ceiling, the artificial light clashing with the daylight that floods through the floor to ceiling window of the right hand wall. The wall straight ahead of him is painted a jet black that seems to suck Pete towards it, interrupted by a sprawling rendition of Hokusai’s  _ The Great Wave off Kanagawa.  _ In fact, Pete wouldn’t be surprised if it was the original. 

Sitting in front of it at a desk the size of Pete’s kitchen, is Mr. Patrick Stump. He’s exactly as he is in his commercials - hair slicked back, sideburns neatly shaven, that same sunny grin on his face. Pete feels the same wariness he felt when looking at wax models in museums - the nearly-but-not-quite humanness sending goosebumps over his skin. 

“Have a seat,” Stump says, gesturing to the two chairs in front of the desk. He’s loud, confident - he leans back in his enormous leather chair and watches them as they skitter towards him like rats to a gutter. Joanna folds her arms and sits, lips pursed and coiled hair beginning to spill from her carefully tied bun. 

“We’re not going to endorse you,” she blurts all of a sudden, clamping her mouth shut tight behind the words and her eyes lit with shock. 

“Oh, you’re not?” Stump says, his eyes widening and his eyebrows rising towards his receding hairline. “Oh, God, well, I suppose that’s it then. Hurley, take down the banners,” he calls. Then, his face drops into something sour, mocking as he gestures to Joanna but turns his eyes to Pete. “Who’s this, your secretary?” 

“She’s - she’s -” 

“I’m  _ co-owner,  _ actually,” she spits, “so  _ fuck  _ you.” 

“How very charming,” Stump says, and then he smiles again, his perfect teeth shining in the daylight. He looks at Pete once more. “I’d suggest a muzzle for your dog.” 

Pete’s mouth seems incapable of any kind of sounds in the face of the future President - he can only sit and wonder at the man’s incredible rudeness. 

“Hey - fucking look at me, jackass,” Joanna hisses, “you’re a fucking selfish bastard and I hope you -” 

“Rot in hell?” Stump finishes. “Die in extreme pain? Get cancer, have a heart attack, have a stroke? Whatever it is you hope, I guarantee I’ve heard it all before.” 

“I don’t care, I -” 

“You  _ do  _ care, though, don’t you,” Stump sneers, “you care so very much. But, darling, shouting at me isn’t gonna accomplish anything at all, now, is it?” 

“Yes it is,” she retorts, “I’ll sleep better tonight knowing I called you a piece of fucking shit.” 

“Alright, so insult me. Go on,” he says, that smile playing across his lips again. He leans back and spreads his arms wide in invitation.

Joanna casts an uncertain glance at Pete. “I - uh,” she stammers, and Pete winces. “I think you’re greedy. I think you’re spineless, I think you prey on people’s fear and prejudice, I think your campaign is founded on hatred and discrimination and I think someone will kill you before you ever set foot in the Oval Office.” 

Stump nods thoughtfully, then turns his sparkling eyes onto Pete. Pete’s not sure what it is about him - perhaps something in his smile - but it feels as though Stump is sifting through his very soul. “And you? What’ve you got?”

“I - I don’t - I -” Pete stumbles, his hands tight to the arms of the chair and his gaze flitting between each of Stump’s strange blue eyes.

“Come on, man,” Stump cajoles, “don’t let your wife do all the talking.”

“She’s not -”

“I’m not his fucking wife,” he and Joanna say in unison, and Stump raises his eyebrows.

“Oh?” he says, looking - leering - at Joanna. “She’s hot, what are you waiting for?”

“Hey -” Pete starts, but Stump talks over him.

“ - nice mouth, and if she sorts her wardrobe out, you might even know she’s a woman.”

Pete’s fear is overtaken with a bubbling rage. “Do - do you enjoy this?” Pete asks suddenly, “do you make other people feel like shit to make yourself feel better about the fact that you’re nothing more than a fat, greedy, cold-blooded reptile?”

Stump grins. “Oh, _now_ we’re getting somewhere,” he says, leaning forward, “come on, what else?”

“You - you - you’re a coward.”

“Yes, yes, and?” Stump encourages, snapping his fingers.

“And - and a liar!”

“Good, what else?”

“And - you’ll ruin the lives of millions!” Pete yells, flinching at his own voice as it echoes around the room.

“Good!” Stump says, “you see? Anger is power. And, do you know what _I’m_ angry about? I used to run a small business. I can’t count the number of times I was fucking _fucked in the ass_ by million-dollar companies. It made me fucking angry! I was angry in my head, then I was angry out loud, then in public, then on TV. Now, I’m in a position where I can actually do something. I can take that anger, and your anger, and the anger of every poor bastard that works their ass off every day and gets nothing for it, and I can make _change_.”

Pete realises in that moment how Stump has managed to get this far. For a few seconds, Pete’s captivated, almost nodding along to Stump’s words, agreement ringing in his chest. He blinks hard, attempting to snap out of it.

“You don’t like me,” Stump continues, “I get that. I’m the asshole talking about small businesses whilst sitting at a twenty thousand dollar desk. What do I know? But I’ve been there. I’ve been on the other side of this desk, staring at the multimillionaire and thinking _what a fucking bastard_. But that fucking bastard turned out to be my only chance for change.”

Pete wants to shout, to scream at Stump for his incitement of hatred, of discrimination, of downright fascism, but his rage is drained and he seems to have run out of insults.

“Let’s look at your other options. Sneed, Democrat nominee frontrunner - a weakling. He’ll talk human rights and respect but he won’t practice what he preaches. And, the Republican chick? Get me in a room with her, I’ll have her sucking on my balls within five minutes. She wants money, that’s all. I’ve got fucking money. I don’t preach what I don’t practice. Two party politics is dead. Endorse me, and you endorse prosperity.”

Pete curses himself for letting Stump talk. He owns the room, commands the atmosphere. Pete looks at Joanna, who has a frown carved into her face but remains silent.

“Listen -” Stump says, as if they aren’t already enraptured. “I’m hosting a political houseparty this Friday. They’ve proved popular in the past - food, open bar, live music, all the trimmings. This one’s aimed at all you small businesses. Come along, do a little schmoozing, get to know me and my team.” He slides two slips of card across the desk.

“I don’t know…” Pete finally manages to say, shaking his head. He knows how these things go - they’ll end up even further under Stump’s spell.

“Just - think about it,” Stump shrugs. “You’ll like me once you get to know me.”

Pete highly doubts this. He’s repulsively captivating - his wobbling chin tinged with stubble, his stomach straining the buttons of his shirt, pink tongue poking between his teeth as he flashes that fucking cheshire-cat smile again.

At that, Joanna stands and walks away. Pete looks between her and Stump, who is still incessantly grinning, and gets to his feet, taking the invitations from the desk and avoiding Stump’s eyes. “Thanks for your time,” Stump says, “stay angry.”

Pete nods out of absent politeness and hurries away from him, stumbling out of the door after Joanna. He tries to grab her arm but she flinches away from him.

“What a nauseating man,” Pete sighs once they’re in the elevator. Joanna simply stares ahead. She’d wanted to be thrown out of Stump’s office in a blaze of glory and heroism - all she got was a silencing. Pete looks at the golden edged invitations in his hands. “Shall I tear these up?”

Joanna glares at him. “Don’t you fucking dare,” she hisses. “We’re fucking going to that party.”

“Jo, you don’t have to try to one-up him, he’s good at talking, he’s literally trained to argue like that, you didn’t _lose_ -”

“I’m not fucking talking to him ever again. We’re going to that party, we’re showing him we’re not fucking scared, we’re going to drink as much of his fortune as we can and vomit on his fucking purple carpets.”

“Jo, I - it’ll all be campaign bullshit, you don’t wanna hear it.”

“Shut up. We’re fucking going.”

Pete looks down at the invitation in his hand.

_MANIACorp invites you to join us for a gathering with PATRICK STUMP, candidate for President._   
_Friday, August 31st, 9:00pm - late._   
_Registration required at MANIACorpbookings.com_   
_1-833-688-2697_   
_Black tie optional_   
_All funds raised at the event will be put towards election projects_   
_Free chauffeur service available._

He sighs. He’s going to Patrick Stump’s party.

 


	3. Chapter 3

"Oh -  _ God,  _ Mr. President,  _ yes,  _ harder - you're so  _ big,  _ you're so - oh, God, yes,  _ right  _ there," the escort - Sally or Stephanie or something - gasps as Patrick drives his cock into her, snapping his hips forward hard and fast. He gropes her breast with one hand, squeezing and rubbing and watching her spit-slick mouth drop open, shining with come from a face-fucking. 

He's close, his aching cock embedded in her tight heat, his balls squashed between his open zipper and her dripping cunt. He thrusts faster, listening to her pornographic moans, her cries of "Mr. President!", just as he'd requested. Her mascara is comically smudged and her lip gloss is smeared over both of their mouths, a hint of cherry flavouring at the tip of his tongue. He leans back, hoists her slim hips over his own and slams into her, watching his cock sliding in and out of her, blood-gorged and white-hot. 

A knock at the door rings through his office. He glares, ignores it, resumes ploughing the woman into the fur rug. 

"Who's that?" she asks between gasps. He shoves his tongue into her mouth to shut her up. 

"Let them hear," he growls, fucking her deep and slow. She obeys, letting out a howling moan as Patrick gives her wobbling ass a slap. He rams his throbbing cock into her one last time, his balls pressed tight between her thighs, and comes deep inside her, shuddering through his climax with a heaving chest and a spinning mind. 

"Mr. Stump?" the voice outside the door calls. It's Andy - it's always fucking Andy - and he sounds pissed. Patrick wonders if he could care less as he removes his dick from the escort and watches his come drip between her legs. 

"You can go now," he tells the girl - Sarah? Sandra? As if he gives a fuck - and she nods, wiping at her ruined makeup. "Money's on the desk."

"Mr. Stump, I'm opening this door," Andy says, his shadow moving across the dark glass door. Patrick stands, arranges himself into a suitable  _ fuck you  _ position and stares at the door handle. 

Hurley opens the door to reveal Patrick lounging against his desk, arms folded, shirt open, cock out. Andy simply glares at him, his gaze snapping to the girl as she flees into the bathroom. 

"Mr. Stump, I've been trying to contact you for the last half hour, we need to go over your discussion points for tonight," he sighs, looking carefully away from Patrick's crotch. Patrick swipes his sweat-soaked hair from his face. 

"I've been busy," he says shortly. 

"This is the third time this week, Mr. Stump. May I suggest you find a different hobby?" 

"You can suggest all you like," Patrick scoffs, watching the escort as she scampers from the bathroom in a skimpy vest top and skirt. "See you soon, baby," he smiles. He lands a slap to her ass as she reaches for the money on the desk. "Not even a kiss goodbye? I  _ am  _ your future president." 

She looks between him and Hurley, clutching the crisp bills in her hands. Then, she relaxes back into her role, giving Patrick a sultry smile and sauntering over to him. "Of course,  _ sir."  _

He cops a quick feel of her tits as she kisses him deeply, then slides his hands to her ass so that Andy can see how much more interesting she is to him than political discussion points. "Bye, sweetheart," he says as she lets go, grinning at her with something more than his canned smile. 

Once she's left the room, he presses the intercom in his desk, and the receptionist answers momentarily. "Hey, there's another one coming. You know what to do," he says. He hangs up before she replies. "Happy?" 

Hurley seems neither happy nor sad. He simply looks at Patrick with that vaguely disapproving frown. Patrick rolls his eyes and finally tucks his sticky cock back into his pants. 

"Please get changed," Andy asks curtly, setting his folders down on the spindly glass table and snapping his fingers at the coffee machine in the wall. "We need to -" 

"Discuss strategies, yeah, whatever," Patrick says. "Can't I just - fucking, smile and wave? It's still a party, right?" 

"It's a gathering of potential supporters," Andy corrects, "and  _ no,  _ you can't just smile. These people are business owners, they want to know you'll maintain freedom of trade, they want to know your plans for tax reform, they -" 

"They want to drink all my booze," Patrick says, "it's a free party. That's all they care about." 

"Mr. Stump, I -" 

"Look, you can wank yourself dry with the fucking Index of Economic Freedom, but in the end, they want to see me as a buddy. They want to get plastered with me and tell their friends about it." 

Hurley frowns again, but Patrick knows he's right. "Be that as it may," he says stiffly, "we would still like you in the conference room in half an hour. And with the greatest of respects, sir -  _ please  _ shower." 

Patrick lets out a shimmering laugh and rolls his eyes. Andy may know all there is to know about fiscal policy, but Patrick knows how to draw people onto his side, one charming smile at a time. 

-

"No tie?" Patrick asks his stylist as she leaves his neck curiously un-bound. "What's got into you?" 

She tuts and resumes combing his hair back, raking the teeth over his skull. "They want to see your fun side," she says, her own fun side missing in action many years previously. "Big smile for me, honey." 

He grins, tilting his chin up like she's trained him and raising an eyebrow at himself in the mirror. The man who looks back seems confident, devilish, enticing. Patrick is in love with him. 

She leans back, fusses over his open collar, undoes one more button of his shirt. "Marvellous," she says as she sweeps her gaze over him. "But have a breath mint." She shoves a white pill into his mouth and his senses flood with cool peppermint. 

"Are we done?" Hurley asks from the doorway. "People have begun to arrive." 

"Can someone get me a whiskey?" Patrick asks, his fingers clenching around an imaginary glass. "It would make for a better entrance, y'know? Drink in hand, ready to party." 

Hurley looks at him steadily. "I would recommend a three-drink limit, Mr. Stump," he drawls, "you need to be bubbly, but not drunk." 

"I'm neither right now," Patrick grumbles, "be a doll and pour me a double, would you?" 

"May I remind you,  _ sir,  _ that I'm not your PA," Andy snaps, and Patrick doesn't much appreciate his attitude. 

"May  _ I  _ remind  _ you  _ who exactly pays your salary?" Patrick scathes, "I can quite easily find a new campaign manager. Now, run along and get me a fucking whiskey." 

Hurley's expression turns thunderous, but he leaves the room, hopefully in the direction of the bar. Patrick smiles at his reflection. His stylist sticks a  _ VOTE STUMP  _ sticker over his heart. 

-

"Good evening, everyone," Patrick says to the sea of wine glasses in front of him. "Welcome to my humble gathering." A small laugh ripples around the room - there's an ice sculpture in the centre of the buffet. "I hope you've all got a drink in your hand - if not, I've truly failed as a candidate - and I hope tonight will give you the chance to mingle with me and my team. Feel free to ask questions about our campaign, our objectives - although I'd advise you to be quick, I won't be sober for long - and most importantly, enjoy yourselves. The dance floor is waiting, the alcohol is free-flowing and night is young. Go nuts, folks!" 

The music starts to play as Patrick raises his glass and moves away from the mic. "Vote Stump," Hurley hisses at him as he steps off the small stage, "you were supposed to say  _ vote Stump.  _ And what was all that about drinks? This is a  _ political gathering,  _ not a house party." 

"I think you'll find it's a  _ political house party,"  _ Patrick replies, "and look," he gestures to the room, decked from floor to ceiling in red, white and blue and the glittering  _ VOTE STUMP  _ banner spread across the far wall, "I reckon they'll get the message." 

Hurley rolls his eyes. "Stick to the script next time," he snaps, turning on his heel. 

Patrick makes a face at him and heads into the crowd, smiling and shaking hands and trying desperately to remember the name of each identical grey-suited businessman. 

"Mr Stump," people cry at him, angling for conversation. He's happy to oblige, listening to them drone on about their profit margins and the state of the economy. He knows when to grin, when to frown, when to burst into booming fake laughter. They lap it up. 

"What's your stance on memory laws?" someone asks all of a sudden - a dark haired woman whom Patrick thinks he recognises. Perhaps he fucked her. "Do you think it's fair that the poor should have to sell their minds in order to get by?" 

The group of eyes turns to look at him. He adjusts his smile. "I think those who wanna sell their experiences should be able to." 

The woman shakes her head. "That's not what I asked. Do you think it's right that children have to sell themselves to keep their families afloat?" 

"I - no," Patrick says, "but the legal age is eighteen." 

"And yet ten-year-olds are still selling their memories," she says, and Patrick finally places her. 

"You're - from Memory Lane," Patrick said. "You put up quite a fight in that interview." He looks around at the curious eyes of the business people surrounding them and pastes the smile back onto his face. "It was hilarious - this girl came in and just shouted at me for ten minutes. I took quite a beating, but we worked it out, didn't we - Joanna." 

"Yeah, no," she says, "we're not friends. Tell us more about how you think poor people only have themselves to blame." 

Patrick takes another gulp of whiskey, staring at the reams of purple and silver streamers draped from the ceiling. "Listen," he tells the group, catching the greedy eyes of several dried-up suits. "Just between us - we  _ know  _ we're practically a different species to them. Have you seen how they live? In - boxes, stacked on top of one another? Do you really think those people are qualified to vote in an election?" 

A murmur runs around his audience. Joanna stares daggers at him. 

"No-one wants to say it - fucking  _ political correctness  _ or whatever - but you wouldn't give rats a vote if you wanted to demolish a sewer. Is it fair that they are given the same political rights as educated business people like yourselves? Of course it isn't. You're worlds ahead of them! I want to give  _ you  _ the say you deserve." 

They're nodding, exchanging glances as if Patrick didn't simply make it all up on the spot. Joanna looks as if she's boiling alive. "That's all bullshit. Anyone who believes that is as pig-headed as you are." She then wrestles her way out of the crowd and strides away. 

Patrick laughs, bringing his glass to his lips. "Liberals, eh?" 

-

"Mr. Stump?" someone says, again, for the millionth time. Patrick spins around on the bar stool and the room spins twice as fast. 

"Hurley?" he slurs, squinting at the solemn-looking man in front of him. "I'm - all ears." 

"I don't have anything to say to you other than  _ go home, _ " he tells Patrick. Patrick follows most of the sentence, then loses interest. 

"Have a drink!" he says, thrusting his glass at Andy and watching the golden liquid slosh around the edges. "This is a fuckin'  _ party."  _

"I think not," Hurley says, gingerly pushing Patrick's glass back towards him and looking down his nose at Patrick. "I'm going home. So should you." 

"No,  _ no,"  _ Patrick emphasises, "you should - fucking,  _ dance,"  _ he says, "dance, Andy. That's an order." 

"How many have you had, Mr. Stump?" he says, and Patrick stares at the glass in his hand. 

"Uh - one," he says, squinting. "This one. Except - they put more in it sometimes. I'm not drunk!" 

"Of course you're not," Hurley says, "go  _ home. _ " 

"No, I'm - talking," Patrick says, because he  _ is  _ talking - or someone's talking for him. He can feel his mouth moving either way. "I'm talking to -" he twists around, looking for an unsuspecting conversation partner. A man two spots away from him looks back. "Him!" He grabs for the guy's sleeve and misses, very nearly toppling off the stool. 

Hurley rolls his eyes and watches Patrick struggle to push himself upright once again. "Alright, Mr. Stump. Joe's around somewhere, he'll make sure you get home safe." 

"My  _ name  _ is Mr. President!" Patrick shouts after him, and his own voice sounds utterly hilarious so he bursts into a fit of laughter. The guy is still looking at him. "Was I talking to you?" he asks, "yes. Vote for me!" he giggles, taking another swig of whiskey and frowning at his glass when it somehow becomes empty. 

"You're - Patrick Stump," the man says, his voice almost as slurred as Patrick's, "from the -" he gestures to the room, "thing. Party." 

"Yeah," Patrick says, "President Patrick's Party," he grins, popping the _p_ s. "Wait. Wait," he rambles, pointing at the guy, "wait. Do - I know you?" 

"Dunno," the guy says. "You do now." 

"You - you called me an asshole," Patrick says, tilting his head and peering at the man. This fact is fitfully amusing. 

"You  _ are  _ an asshole," the guy snorts. "You - you, said, bad things. I don't like you." 

"Then you're not drunk enough," Patrick says, gesturing to the guy's empty glass. "Can I buy you a drink?" 

At that, they both snort with laughter. "You - you do know all the drinks are free, right?" the man sniggers, and Patrick thinks that's incalculably funny because he's pretty sure  _ he's  _ the one paying for all the drinks to be free. 

"Hey," he calls to the bartender, "hey. Could you - make him drink more. Make him a drink. And me. I want one too." 

The bartender nods, and begins constructing whatever elaborate cocktail the man seems to be drinking. Patrick can see that woman - Jo...sephine, Joan of Ark, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jol _ ene  _ \- behind the man. He can't really remember her but he remembers not liking her. "Who's the woman. Girlfriend?" 

The man glances round at her, then turns his wandering gaze back to Patrick. "No. I'm not - she's - I don't - she doesn't like you." 

Patrick shakes his head because he  _ knows  _ that, he's not interested in that, but for some reason he  _ is  _ interested in the fact that she and the man in front of him aren't dating. He stares down at his empty glass - it doesn't tell him anything except the fact he needs to drink more. "What's your name again?" 

"Uh - Pete," the man says, and Patrick giggles. 

"Uh - Pete? I'm uh - Patrick," he says, thinking he must have introduced himself before but better safe than sorry.

"I know," Pete says, his eyes lighting up as a bright pink cocktail is set in front of him, complete with lime slice and lit sparkler. "I don't like you but I like your party." 

"Why don't you like me?" Patrick asks. He's sure he's used to people not liking him, but with Pete's eyes fixed on the sparkler rather than him, Patrick feels oddly usurped. 

"You - you," Pete slurs, waving the sparkler around, "you - I don't remember," he says, putting a hand to his lips and bursting into sputtering laughter. He makes the imprint of a smiley face in the air and Patrick stares, mesmerised. 

"I want one," he says, "bartender? I want - one of those things." He points to the dying sparkler and smacks his hand on the bar. 

There's a space between them, an empty stool, so Patrick slides across to it with as much grace as his upended body can muster - he manages to get halfway before he catches his foot on something and topples into Pete. It's easily the funniest thing to have happened to either of them, and by the time Patrick's whiskey arrives, complete with sparkler, he's crying tears of laughter into Pete's shoulder. 

He nearly takes Pete's eye out with the sparkler, but once Pete's fingers steady his hand, they paint pictures in the air until the glittering flame fades back to crumbling grey. Pete smells nice. 

"Are - is she your, your - woman?" Patrick garbles at him - he can't see Joanna but she's there in his mind. 

"No," Pete scoffs, "I'm gay." 

Patrick bursts into a fresh fit of giggles, "Gay?!" he says, "Like - like, for real?  _ Gay  _ gay?" 

"Gay gay gay," Pete says. "Yeah." 

"That's kinda hot," Patrick says, leaning close to Pete as if he might be able to smell the Judy Garland records. "Are you like, fuckin' - hot for me?" 

Pete just shrugs. This is not the answer Patrick is looking for. 

He kisses Pete without further ado, the whiskey burning through all technique and leaving him slobbering over Pete's lips like a lonely Labrador. It's nearly the same as kissing a woman - except when he grabs at Pete's chest, there's no tits to greet him. 

"What about now," Patrick breathes, a strange thrill running down his spine. He kissed a man. It's somehow even more hilarious than the stool thing. 

"Dunno," Pete says. "My mouth's all wet." 

"Aren't mouths always wet?" Patrick asks Pete's top lip, before he takes it between his own and pulls at it gently. It's a strange sensation when Pete begins to kiss back, sucking at Patrick's bottom lip and bringing his hands to Patrick's neck. All Patrick can think is that there's stubble on this person's cheeks and a dick between his legs - Patrick's hand wanders, disorientated, over Pete's boobless chest, not entirely unsatisfied. The thought makes him giggle against Pete’s lips. 

"Are you - are you gay too?" Pete mumbles between kisses, his fingers stroking at the back of Patrick's neck. It's nice - affectionate. 

Patrick shakes his head, but places a hand on Pete's thigh all the same. "Just - trying something."

"That's not my dick," Pete shrewdly observes as Patrick strokes over his thigh, and they both snigger, " _ here's  _ my dick," he says, bringing Patrick's hand to his crotch and pressing it down. 

Patrick makes an appreciative sound into Pete's mouth, quickly followed by his tongue. This guy might be just that - a  _ guy,  _ but he's almost as pretty as the chicks Patrick fucks and moreover, he's  _ free.  _ He gives Pete's dick a squeeze and Pete breathes a rush of hot and sugar-coated air over his face. 

"What does -" Patrick starts, pausing only to let out a burst of breathy laughter, "what does dick taste like?" 

"Um," Pete falters, "uh, like - like - like - dunno. Salt. Why, you wanna try?" 

Patrick surprises himself when he nods and kisses Pete deep and dirty, breathing in the musk of aftershave and sweat and  _ man.  _ His vision is blurred, out-of-sync with his movements, he's so drunk that he  _ knows  _ he'll fall over when he tries to get off this stool and right now, sucking a stranger's dick seems like the most fun he's had all evening. 

"You wanna - you - you wanna fuckin' - get out of here?" Patrick murmurs after downing the remainder of his whiskey, "I've got fur. On the floor. Fur floors. Cap - cat - carpet." 

"Yeah. Carpet," Pete nods, "let's go." 

Patrick grins, grabbing for Pete's forearm and using it to steady himself as he slides gracelessly off the stool. The world around him wobbles dangerously, but he manages to land on his feet and pulls Pete with him. Most people seem to have left - one hurries towards him, and Patrick ducks as if he can avoid them. 

"Mr. Stump, is this dude bothering you?" the large man asks. Patrick squints at him - it's his bodyguard. One of them anyway. Does he have more than one? He doesn't remember. 

"No, no, Mr. Guard, " Patrick says, gripping tight to Pete's waist. He's a slim guy - he almost feels like a girl. "He's a man." 

The bodyguard - Marcus, maybe? - frowns at them. "Yes, sir, I'm aware of that."

"I'm the Presin - the Predi - I'm the boss. Of - America. Leave me alone." 

"I'll take you to your car, sir," Marcus says, "will your buddy be joining you?" 

Patrick looks at Pete, who leans into Patrick's shoulder, giggling profusely. "You're the  _ President,"  _ he snorts, "what the hell? Where's Joanna, I gotta tell her, where - oh, maybe she went home. Did she tell you she was going home?" 

Patrick tries to remember, and finds only coloured lights in his head. But he doesn't  _ want  _ Pete to go and find  _ her  _ again - he wants Pete to see his magnificent, engorged mansion. He nods. "She said - she was going." 

"'Kay," Pete mumbles, "I'm so sleepy." 

"No, no," Patrick says, patting Pete on the cheek and dragging him towards the doors, "I've got drink at home. More - more shots." 

"Drinks?" Pete says, perking up immediately, "yes. Let's go." 

The cool night air does absolutely nothing to sober Patrick up - he smacks his head on the door of the limousine and laughs about it until he cries, a pleasant tingling sensation in his skull. He kisses Pete some more - licking at the inside of his mouth, feeling their teeth clash and their tongues writhe - and it feels nice, natural, inbetween Pete's cries that he's kissing the President. 

"Why isn't your hand on my dick," Pete whines at him, "put - put it back." So Patrick does, grabbing at Pete's crotch like hookers sometimes do to him. 

"You're not -" Patrick starts, pausing to think of the word, "tough. What? Hard. In your dick." 

Pete giggles into Patrick's neck, shaking his head. "'M too drunk. Your mouth will help." 

"Never sucked a dick before," Patrick replies, "only tits." 

"'S not hard," Pete says, then hoots with laughter. "It  _ is  _ hard. 'Cause of the dick. The dick is hard. Y'know? Stump - What's your name? Patrick. Did you hear my joke?"

"Yeah," Patrick mumbles, even though he didn't really understand, "you're funny." 

"I'm gay," Pete says, "you - you should be gay too. Then we'd both be gay." 

"But I don't like cocktails," Patrick says, bringing Pete into a searching kiss as the car slows to a stop. 

Pete, apparently, doesn't mind this fact as they stumble into Patrick's house. He's rather insistent upon getting Patrick's pants open, scrabbling at his belt and almost punching Patrick in the balls on more than one occasion. 

"Lights," Patrick calls, and the lounge explodes into white, stinging his eyes and making Pete wince like a wounded spider. "No, less lights. Go away." 

The room fades to a soft orange hue and Patrick breathes a sigh of relief, circles of blushing brightness still burned into his corneas. "Drink?" Pete asks hopefully, and Patrick pushes him towards his personal bar, fumbling for the peach Schnapps. 

"This is gay, right?" Patrick asks, taking a swig from the bottle and nodding. Pete reaches for the bottle and takes a gulp for himself. 

"Tastes like dick," he says. "Peach dick." 

"Awesome," Patrick replies. "Bedroom?" 

\- 

Patrick's bedroom is his pride and joy. It takes up nearly the entire top floor, the ceiling solid glass and the carpets a rich, white fur. He expects a  _ wow  _ from Pete, or at the very least a gasp, but Pete's far too busy trying to undo his own pants to notice his luxurious surroundings. He wonders if that's a guy thing or just a Pete thing. 

"Wanna - wanna suck you," Pete stammers, shoving Patrick towards the bed and groping hungrily at Patrick's crotch. 

"Yeah," Patrick nods, because how different can it be from sticking his dick in a girl? He shoves his pants down to his knees and pulls his cock from his boxers, soft but stirring in his hand. 

He  _ does  _ get a gasp from Pete at the sight of his cock - Pete grins at him, pushing him down on the bed and fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. "Nice," Pete says, "wanna - wanna -" 

Pete never quite expresses what he wants to do because he fills his mouth with Patrick's cock, slurping sloppily at the head before sinking down, his throat contracting deliciously around Patrick's now rock-hard prick. Patrick stares at him, watching his male mouth and his male tongue envelop Patrick's male penis. But thinking is for sobriety and Patrick is far past that point, so he threads a hand into Pete's male hair and thrusts into his mouth, crying out when Pete moans around his dick and his whole body seems to tingle with pleasure. 

For a moment, Pete pulls off, fondling Patrick's balls in his hand and placing delicate licks to the head of his cock. "You can -" he says inbetween gasps, "you can fuck me if you suck me off first." 

This is decidedly more gay than even drunk Patrick is entirely comfortable with, but hell if he's going to back down now. "In your asshole?" Patrick asks curiously, his eyes flicking to the curve of Pete's butt and wondering what it would be like to put his cock in there. 

"Yeah," Pete nods, "right in there." 

"Okay," Patrick says, sitting up and feeling the room swing around him. He swallows the burst of bile at the back of his throat. 

Dick  _ does  _ taste like salt, Patrick discovers as he puts his lips to the head and sucks gently. He reckons he'd rather fuck Pete's face until he comes, but the thought of sinking into Pete's ass keeps his dick hard, dripping between his legs as he stares at the cock in front of him. It's a lot more in-your-face than a pussy. Still, he decides it's worth it if Pete keeps making noises like  _ that.  _

"Just suck it," Pete shrugs. He looks as dazed as Patrick feels. A fuzz of colour rushes across Patrick's vision. 

It's a strange sensation - Pete's cock pushes on his tongue, down his throat; he feels the urge to chew and fights it viciously. His hands pin Pete's thighs to the plush sheets as he begins to bob his head, touching himself roughly. Pete blurts encouragement at him between curses, his hand momentarily resting in Patrick's hair before Patrick swats it away. 

Patrick comes with a groan as he jerks himself furiously, his head buzzing and his muscles tiring. As the pleasure fades, the exhaustion kicks in, his eyes shut and his mouth sloppy around Pete's cock. It all seems like far too much effort now - if he'd paid for an escort, he'd be in peace and asleep already. He wilts as quickly as his dick, curled over Pete with a cock still lodged in his mouth. He decides he could quite happily pass out like this. 

Pete groans and nudges him with a toe, patting his head lightly. "Come  _ on,"  _ he whines, "or I won't vote for you." 

Patrick giggles absently, opening his eyes and looking at Pete beginning to move his mouth once again. It's not long before Pete's coming over his tongue, bitter and sticky. Patrick gags, spits it onto the sheets. "Fuckin' gross, man."

"There," Pete mumbles, collapsing onto his side and watching his come drip down Patrick's chin. "You have my endorsement."

Patrick snorts, wiping at his face with his sleeve and rolling onto his back between Pete's legs. He peels the  _ VOTE STUMP  _ sticker from his open shirt and sticks it firmly on Pete's balls. 

"Thanks for your support," he says to Pete's genitals. They both snigger until they pass out. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No chapter next week 'cause I'm away, so see you in a fortnight! Thanks for reading, leave a comment if you like :D


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Monday once again! Welcome back to this weird little tale - so much more to come...

Pete wakes to a supernova headache. His brain is imploding with heat and ice and rage, an iron mass crushing itself impossibly smaller. He can barely slit his eyes open - his corneas sear with each flicker of blade-like light, aching until all he can see is the buzzing colours behind his eyelids, his mind weighted and his senses sticky. 

Raising his head from the sheets requires the strength of Atlas, the bubble-bath air clogging his throat. He wishes it would drown him. Perhaps he  _ is  _ drowning, perhaps that's why his bones feel like water balloons filled to bursting. The metal in his head crunches as he stirs, grinding his eyes open until the light fades and he can finally comprehend what swims into view. 

The room is semi-dark, the glass dimming the glare of the sun to a strange orange blob floating above the city. From the carpeted floors to the ugly water feature, everything is bathed in a distant grey. Pete blinks several times before he can assemble a list of important questions, including a) where the fuck he is, and b), what the fuck happened to him in the sprawling abyss of last night. 

It takes him another five minutes of dozing before he can get anywhere close to answering either; his limbs are uncooperative to the point that he wonders if this moment is even his own, or if it is in fact another stolen piece of somebody else. For the first time, he rather wishes it was. 

He drags his mind back to last night - he remembers a party, a  _ political  _ party, but has no recollection of leaving said party. The pain in his brain reminds him just how much he must have drunk, and not a lot else. He feels for the notebook that should be in his chest pocket, but hits only bare skin. When he looks down at himself, he sees that he is not only in someone else's bed, but he is naked. A sense of an impending car crash drops through him. 

There's something fleshy resting on his thigh, something that sighs when he shifts his leg and clings tighter. When he squints at the blurred grey mass, he sees that it's skin. A whole lot of skin. 

The skin is wrapped around a human person - a relief, until Pete peers closer and the man's face assembles before him, shoved up against his thigh and leaking saliva over him. Recognition tumbles over him like ice water - Pete knows that face. That face is sprawled over every poster in Chicago, has been on every news channel, every talk show, inside the heads of every person unable to afford an ad-free mind. Patrick Stump is asleep between Pete's legs. 

Pete feels a sudden and urgent need to vomit and sits up fast, yanking his leg from under the semi-naked man and staring for a few disbelieving seconds before the nausea overwhelms him. He scrambles from the ridiculously large bed, into the ridiculously large bathroom and vomits away the taste of Patrick's ridiculously large cock. 

The man in the mirror is a startling shade of grey - his eyes are bloodshot, the shadow of stubble frames his jaw. He spits the remnants of bile out of his mouth and wipes his tear-streaked face. This can't be happening. He can't have slept with Stump. Of all the millions, trillions of possible outcomes, this is perhaps the worst. He collapses over the sink to vomit once again, his hands shaking and the room tilting this way and that. 

_ It's not real,  _ he tells himself,  _ it's not really him. It's a trick of the light, a random rich stranger who happens to look a little like the biggest pig in politics.  _ That's when Pete feels something sticky catch between his legs, pulling at the sensitive skin. He reaches down and yanks at it, letting out a yelp as it takes most of his pubic hair with it. It's a VOTE STUMP sticker. Pete stares at it for a few seconds, his blind brain attempting to remember how on earth it got there and drawing a blank. 

He crumples the sticker in his hand and throws it towards a tiny ornate bin. It falls a foot short, and Pete sighs. A mocking spike of pain runs through his temples. The only saving grace is that there's no sting in his hips - his ass remained blissfully free of Stump's dick. He almost vomits again as he contemplates that the same may not be said for his mouth. 

Rummaging through the bathroom cupboards, he prays that Stump might occasionally practice personal hygiene. There's a nearly-full bottle of mouthwash under the sink, and Pete pounces on it, glugging half the bottle before remembering that he's not, in fact, supposed to swallow. He spits out as much as he can, then decides that death by chloride may not be an unwelcome outcome. 

He stumbles into the enormous shower with all the grace of a dazed flamingo, the floor slipping around underneath him as if determined to throw him to the floor. He leans against the tiles as the water begins to flow, letting it burn the remnants of Stump away and trying not to think of all the things - and people - Stump may have done in this shower. Pete avoids touching anything, simply turning the heat up until his whole body matches his burning skull. 

There's no clothes for him to put on when he finally steps out of the shower - they're no doubt scattered throughout Stump's house, several acres apart. He wipes his face with a hopefully clean flannel and sighs at the state of himself. Just as he's reaching for a towel, a voice from beyond the bathroom makes his sore balls jump back into his body. 

"Hey, baby," Stump cooes, sweet yet uncomfortably dirty. "You in there? Want some company in the shower?"

At that, the bile in Pete's throat makes another comeback, and he swallows it down fast, scrabbling to wrap the towel around himself in case Stump breaks the door down in his never ending quest for a hole to fuck. Pete dries himself off as best he can and watches the door handle warily. 

"Don't be shy," Stump says, and it's perhaps the most threatening phrase Pete's heard in his life, "I only bite if it turns you on." 

With a deep breath and a flash of nerves, Pete opens the bathroom door to reveal Mr. Patrick Stump in his full glory - half-naked, half-asleep and a fully lecherous grin spread over his doughy face. Pete's stomach cramps painfully. 

But Patrick doesn't attempt to mount him - instead, his eyes widen and his mouth falls open, a hand flying to his hair and tugging insistently. "Holy fuck - you're - you're a  _ dude?"   _ he exclaims, looking Pete up and down as if for proof-of-dick. "Oh shit. Oh, whoa. Fuck." 

Pete shrinks back, shielding himself with the bathroom door and watching Stump cycle through various emotions before landing on exasperation. 

"You - did we fuck? Like, in the ass?" 

Pete purses his lips. "Does your asshole hurt?" he asks simply, his composure making a valiant comeback as he watches Stump's meltdown. There's a few, awful moments where Pete has to watch Patrick Stump reach into his own buttcrack before he shakes his head. 

"No. So - we didn't? So - is it still gay?" Stump questions, cocking his head to one side. 

"Oh, no, not gay at all," Pete says, "you've got dried come on your face."

Stump touches a hand to his chin and cringes, wiping uselessly at the flaking trails. "I sucked cock?" he says to his fingers, "fuck, man. That's - wild." 

Pete watches him warily as he paces, steeled for a scolding or possibly even a beating. Stump's short - much shorter than his posters would have people believe - but he's still a big guy; he could flatten Pete with a single pudgy hand. "Are you - okay with that?" Pete asks carefully, trying desperately to read the situation. 

"Dunno," Stump shrugs, sitting down on the bed with thighs spread. Pete really wishes he'd put some underwear on - he's seen quite enough of Stump's cock. "Damn. Never been so hammered I slept with a fuckin'  _ dude." _

"Yeah, and I slept with - you," Pete says. It seems bizarre to say it out loud.

"One of the privileged few," Stump grins, "well. More than a few. First one with a dick, though. Congrats." 

Pete stares, adjusting the towel and wondering if this is all some elaborate prank to make him say something unfortunate. "So - what happens now?" 

Patrick quirks him a smile and leans back on the bed, that big pink cock of his drawing Pete's eye as if to mock him. "Your choice, honey. Impress me with what's under that towel and I'm up for a round two." 

Pete chokes on his own breath and lets out an incredulous laugh that makes his brain hurt. "I meant - this was, like, a mistake, right? Isn't this going to affect your campaign?" 

Patrick blows a long raspberry. "Dude, I single-handedly support every escort service in Chicago, this is a drop in the bucket. It is - kinda weird, though. Was it like, good? Was I into it?" 

"I - don't remember," Pete says, "but I would assume so." His skin itches at the thought - he eyes his clothes, scattered at the foot of the bed. He wonders how quickly he could grab them and run. 

"Show me your dick," Patrick demands, "I wanna see if it turns me on." 

Pete gawks. "No," he exclaims, clutching the towel defensively. Patrick's gaze is disarming, sinking through Pete's skin as if to search his very soul. "I - need to get dressed." 

"Come on," Patrick says, blinking big blue eyes at Pete and shuffling to the edge of the bed. "Suck my cock again, you know you'd like to."

The disgust that this ignites in Pete makes him press a hand to his mouth for fear of throwing up. "Thank you for the offer," Pete says curtly, "but I think I'll pass." 

Stump makes a disappointed noise, and Pete dives for his pants as he sees the man rise from the bed. "You sure, baby? Can I call you baby?" 

"You can call me Pete," Pete says, backing away from Stump and towards the bathroom, snagging his shirt from the floor with nervous hands. “Please - leave me alone.” 

There’s a moment of silence during which Pete wonders if he’s going to receive a smack, but instead, all that happens is the droop of Patrick’s broad shoulders. “Whatever,” Patrick finally says as Pete feels the cool bathroom tiles beneath his feet, “you can - there’s breakfast - hell, lunch - downstairs. I have a - chef, or whatever.” 

Pete nods, ducks into the bathroom as fast as possible and locks the door. Patrick doesn’t say anything more - Pete loathes even the sound of his voice, typical Chicago twang mixed with a crash course in douchebag. Pete loathes that not even he is safe from Stump’s sleazy smirk. 

His reflection sighs at him. The hangover has dulled the anxiety, but he can feel it brewing in his chest - he's a step away from a breakdown, pure horror seeping through him as what he's done is fully processed. He thinks of the tabloids - the news channels that will hound him, the cameras shoved into his face wherever he goes, the accusations of manipulation and corruption and fraud. Perhaps he'll even be arrested; perhaps Stump will feed him to the feds, throw him in jail, send him to the slaughterhouse to be put down with all the other defective drones. 

But even this realisation doesn't seem any more dreadful than the simple fact that he's had Patrick Stump's cock inside him. He hates himself for dropping his standards so low, for sleeping with someone more walrus than human, more arch-villain than politician, and having the audacity to let him enjoy it. Joanna - oh  _ shit,  _ Joanna - is going to kill him. 

There's a heaviness in his shirt as he shrugs it onto weary shoulders - his notebook sits in the breast pocket, a small piece of his soul. He reaches for it, clutching it tight in his palm before flicking it open, checking through the last few pages in case something's been added. The last thing he's written is  _ got a little tipsy. Going home after next drink.  _ If only he'd have known. 

He fumbles with the small pen tucked into the spine and scrawls  _ SLEPT WITH PATRICK STUMP  _ across the next available page. The fact seems even more damning now that it's marked in ink. Pete rubs a hand across his brow.  _ Woke up in his house. Think it was just oral. Very hungover. Stump acting weird - wants to do it again. Had shower. Going to leave ASAP.  _

Patrick's house is ridiculous. When Pete finally creeps out of the bathroom, fully clothed and steeled for Stump's ceaseless assholery, he takes in the sheer size of the bedroom, the panoramic view, the ugly yet expensive-looking ornaments. Stump's nowhere to be seen, so Pete pads towards a set of glass doors which he hopes lead to an elevator. 

He gets lucky - there are four floors to choose from and he picks the second, the doors opening to reveal a gleaming kitchen and lounge. Stump sits at the breakfast bar, scrolling through his phone whilst chewing on some bacon. The elevator spits Pete towards him and buggers off from whence it came. 

"Sit 'own," Stump calls through a mouthful of food, greasy fingers gesturing to the seat opposite him. "'Ave some 'ood." 

Pete hesitates for a few seconds, wringing his hands and wondering if he should simply excuse himself and beg the elevator to come and fetch him. But if he angers Stump, the consequences of this disastrous, drunken mistake could be even more catastrophic. He skitters towards the bar and takes a seat, shifting the stool as far away from Stump as he thinks he can get away with. Stump swallows thickly, running a tongue over his grease-coated lips and smiling at Pete. It makes Pete's skin crawl. 

"What are you hungry for?" Stump asks, "The kitchen will make you, like, whatever you want." 

Pete glances around the room, only just noticing that there are no appliances in Stump's kitchen, no oven, no microwave. The smell of eggs drifts from a door across the room. It sends a wave of nausea through Pete's gut. "Just some painkillers would be great," he says quietly, attempting to make up for his excess of attitude earlier this morning. 

"Come on, man," Stump says, "there's gotta be something. Waffles? Pancakes? Fuckin'...pizza? Whatever you want, dude." 

Pete's stomach perks up immediately at the mention of waffles, letting out a wanton grumble. "Uh - waffles would be - good, yeah." 

Stump grins, sucking on each of his fingers in turn with a wet smacking sound. "Can we get some waffles?" he calls to no-one, "and bring all the sauces. Oh, and some aspirin."

"How are you so - not hungover?" Pete asks, rubbing at his own temples and wincing at the stab of pain in his head.

Shrugging, Stump shoves another strip of bacon in his mouth. "Dunno. Normal Friday nigh'," he says. "Don' remem'er much, though."

Of course their future president is a borderline alcoholic as well as a warthog in a wig. At least he's somewhat clothed - he's wearing MANIACorp t-shirt, the purple fabric pulled taut across his chest and belly, and Pete hopes he's seen fit to put some pants on. Pete likes his breakfast dick-free. 

And what a breakfast it is. Two waitresses arrive with arms full of every topping he could ask for - butter, whipped cream, maple syrup, blueberry sauce, strawberries, melted chocolate, caramel - and he's presented with a tower of crisp, fluffy waffles. Stump laughs at what must be an awestruck expression across Pete's face.

"Pretty good, right?" he grins, digging into his scrambled eggs. Pete nods, stares; he thinks he understands how exactly Stump got so fat. It's all as good as it looks - the strawberries are sweet and juicy, the chocolate smooth with an edge of bitterness. He washes the pills down with the pint of coffee he's been given and hopes it's enough to clear his head. Stump's satisfied smile is infuriating. 

They eat in silence, punctuated only by the excruciating squelching of Stump shovelling egg into his mouth, until Stump's phone buzzes and they both jump from their breakfast-induced stupor. Patrick stares at the slip of metal and glass writhing around on the tabletop for a few seconds, pursing his lips before finally answering it. 

"Now's not good, Andy," he says, dropping his fork onto his plate with a clatter and getting up from the bar. "Well - not that it's any of your business, but yes, he  _ is  _ still here - no - no - for fuck's  _ sake,  _ why -" he hisses as he walks out of the room, clasping the phone tight. Pete listens until the words blur. 

He eats his waffles in eerie silence, looking around at Stump's kitchen and wondering how the hell he ended up here. Alcohol, mostly. He wonders how many cleaners Stump must have to keep up a place this large, how many cooks he must employ to keep himself fed without lifting a finger. Pete hates every inch of the flawless walls, wants to sell it all off and donate every penny to the ill and the homeless. The waffles aren't half bad, though. 

"You're  _ what?!"  _ Stump roars all of a sudden, bursting back into the room and pacing towards the elevator. "This is utterly fucking ridiculous, I don't see what the fucking problem is, it's not as if - hey, don't fucking speak to me like that."

But when the elevator doors open, another man is revealed. He's thin, wiry, a goatee sharpening his features and a suit outlining his slim shoulders. He'd be Pete's type if he didn't look like he was ready to murder someone. Namely, Pete. 

The stare he fixes upon Pete seems to cut through to his soul - he can almost feel the hatred burning his skin. He shrinks back in his seat. 

The man hangs up on Patrick as he steps into the room. "Mr. Stump, do you have any idea what you've done?"

"Yeah - him," Patrick says, pointing towards Pete. "I don't see what all the fucking fuss is about." 

"I've had to erase over a hundred memories this morning. I've had every employee at my disposal out tracking down every person that left that party after I did, and then erased the memories of those employees, the memory of your bartender, your driver, your bodyguard, and now I'll have to do the same to your kitchen staff. What the hell were you thinking?!" 

Patrick makes an exasperated noise and runs a hand through his hair. "He's just a fucking  _ dude,  _ what's the fucking problem? He's not a stripper, he's not an escort, I did what you said!" 

"You  _ know  _ what the problem is. If this gets out, you're  _ done."  _

"Why? It was an impulse! I'm - y'know, quirky. People like that!" 

"People like learning that you like liquorice! Not that you like to suck cock!" the man shouts, casting another cutting glance towards Pete. 

"I won't make a habit of it! I just - wanted to try!" Patrick says, "he's a pretty guy!" 

The man scoffs. "So you're saying you're  _ gay  _ now, are you?" 

"No!" Patrick yells, "I'm just - I dunno!" 

"Because that's what your voters are going to think! That you were a fag all along! Fags don't win elections, Patrick!" 

At that, Stump's face flushes red and his mouth curls into something more of the man Pete fears he is. "Listen, Andy. I'm not a  _ fucking faggot.  _ I made a mistake, I was fucking off my face and I barely even realised he was a fucking dude." 

"How do I know that that's true? Have you been lying to me? Are you gay, Patrick?" the man - Andy - asks, stepping closer to Stump. The few inches he has on Patrick suddenly seem like a few feet. 

"For fuck's sake, no!" Patrick retorts, "I - he seduced me! I was more drunk than him, he - he manipulated me!" He points at Pete, who almost topples off his stool. 

"Hey - that's not true," Pete squeaks, "I was as hammered as you were!" 

"Yeah?" Stump challenges, "have you got proof?" 

Pete's mouth flaps. "Uh - no, but you  _ know - _ " 

"Well, there you go. I got duped by a pansy. Fucking sue me," Stump says, throwing his hands up in the air and turning away from them. Andy strides towards him and catches his forearm, dragging him towards the lounge and hissing things in his ear that Pete tries and fails to hear. Pete's left once again in the kitchen, this time simmering with rage over Stump's blatant lies. 

He eyes the elevator doors, wondering if it's worth making a run for it. They'd almost certainly catch him. The punishment would perhaps be even worse. But Pete's fear of losing his mind to these people is too great - he slides off the stool and creeps towards the doors, pausing only to cast a glance towards Stump, who seems gripped by humiliation. It's a look that Pete always hoped to see on Stump - it's ruined only by context. Pete very nearly snaps a photo of it for Joanna.

But he stares too long - Patrick looks towards him, his face crumbling into a dark scowl. "Where the fuck do you think you're going?" he growls from the sofa. 

"I - just - thought I'd get out of your hair," Pete stammers, "I don't want to make any more trouble for you." 

Stump laughs, hollow. "How fucking thoughtful." 

Andy stands, his cold eyes fixed upon Pete. He leaves Stump slumped on the couch, red still burnished across his cheeks. "Look, Mr. - uh," he tails off, gesturing for Pete to introduce himself. Pete hesitates before saying his name - then again, they probably already know the location of all his birthmarks and his favourite pizza toppings.

"Mr. Wentz," Andy says, "I'm Andrew Hurley. And I'm going to give you a choice. Either you go home, get yourself together, and one of my men deals with you at a later date, or we do this right now and get it over with." 

"You mean -"

"Yes. My men are on their way. You'll be taken home, you'll have no recollection of the event or this morning, you will never interact with me or Mr. Stump again. Is that clear?" 

"I -" Pete stumbles, "I was very drunk, rest assured I have no memory of what happened, there's no way I could sell the memory because I - don't remember." 

Hurley shakes his head. "Unfortunately, Mr. Wentz, your assurances mean nothing to us. Collect your things. This will all disappear soon." 

Pete looks from Hurley's chilly eyes to Patrick's sulky face. "Please," he says, "please, I'm not going to talk, you don't have to do this, I won't be telling anyone about this, I swear - " 

"We're sorry, Mr. Wentz. But this has to be done." 

Hurley advances. Stump does nothing. 

\- 

Pete stares at his own front door. There's a breeze on his face and shopping bags in his hands. He must've gone to get groceries. 

There's a throbbing in his skull that curls his face into a wince - the sound of the door slamming behind him seems to bounce off the walls of his skull. His watch says it's three thirty. He's not sure what exactly he spent the day doing. The state of his flat tells him that it certainly wasn't tidying. 

He dumps the bags on the counter and begins ferrying things into the refrigerator - he can't quite recall if he ate lunch but he doesn't feel hungry, so he simply empties the bags robotically, one vegetable after another. All of them make him feel slightly sick, and the throbbing in his head becomes more persistent. He must be coming down with something. 

His clothes whiff of sweat so he changes out of them, flopping onto the couch in his boxers and remembering why he hates the weekends. The TV provides a masquerade of company, his boredom chased away by unrealistic reality TV and old news. He nearly cries when he learns that it's not, in fact, Sunday - he's still got a whole day before he can escape the prison of his mind and immerse himself in his work. The TV shouts for most of the evening. He's in bed by nine o'clock. 

There's a crack in his ceiling that he swears is getting bigger. He wonders if this should alarm him. He reaches for his notebook, slung onto the floor with his shirt, and rolls onto his side, pressing the spine into the pillow in an attempt to emulate a solid surface. Thumbing to a new page, he writes about the groceries, the waste of an afternoon, the possibility of his house collapsing on him. When he flicks back a few pages, it's out of nervous habit, out of the distant fear that perhaps he's forgotten something important. He never has - until now. 

_ SLEPT WITH PATRICK STUMP. _

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same time next week?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! It's time again for some greasy politics!
> 
> What's the general consensus on Mr. Patrick Stump, MANIACorp mogul? Love him? Hate him? Let me know in the comments! (I hated him at first but now I kinda wanna use him as a bean bag) 
> 
> Enjoy!

Patrick glares at his mahogany coffee table and rests his bare feet on it. Andy sits opposite him, his arms folded and his legs crossed. Patrick's given up truly listening by now, his mind wandering to what he might have for dinner, which movie he'll fall asleep in front of. He takes his phone from his pocket, checks for new messages. There are none. 

"- look at me, not your phone," Andy hisses suddenly, snapping his fingers at Patrick. "This is important, Mr. Stump. Our plan of action from here could make or break your campaign." 

Patrick rolls his eyes. Andy says that every time Patrick sticks his dick in anything. "You said you'd handled it," Patrick drawls, tipping his head back into the couch. "We don't need a  _ plan of action."  _

"Patrick," Andy says, spitting his name like sour milk, "I've cleared it up as best I can. Your little friend is being wiped as we speak. But there is still a chance that this will get out, and if it does, you need to know what the procedure is." 

"You gonna wipe my memory too?" Patrick asks. The prospect isn't unreasonable; plausible deniability would be a useful tool. He could go back to being normal, electable, straight Patrick Stump. It doesn't entice him as much as he thought it might.

"It's an option," Andy says curtly, "but we haven't reached that point. For now, it's best if you have knowledge of the issue at hand." 

"Fair enough," Patrick shrugs. He desperately, painfully doesn't care. 

"So, onto your next moves - I would suggest tackling the issue of the LGBT community during the Monday radio interview; you need to express concern at their growing influence, you need to establish them as a threat without openly insulting them. Can you do that, Mr. Stump?" 

"Of course," Patrick says. He can do anything with a microphone in front of him. 

\- 

Later that evening, he's still on the couch, a light headache settling on his brow and a rain cloud hanging over his head. He's not quite sure what he's so miserable about - it's not as if Andy's scoldings are few and far between - but he feels petty, sulky, stubborn. Perhaps it was the implication that he's a faggot - which he categorically is  _ not -  _ or perhaps it was the interference, Andy's inability to leave his life alone. 

He scowls at the TV - it's some shitty competition where poor people have to guess which celebrity a memory belongs to. Patrick himself donated one once; Andy said it would be good publicity. And it was - MANIA's corporate approval rating improved by 1.5%. Patrick got hammered to celebrate. 

He wonders what Pete is doing now - if he's telling all his friends what an ass Patrick Stump really is, or if he's spreading the word about Patrick's magnificent cock. It won't be either, though, because Pete now doesn't remember any of it. All of last night has been blotted out of existence. Patrick sighs and burrows himself further into the couch. 

It's nearly an acceptable time for sleep, so Patrick turns the TV over to his extensive porn selection, his dick already twitching with interest. It's mostly girl on girl, a few mixed threesomes, a library of blowjobs. Patrick wonders if he should treat himself, print a memory rather than a video, but truth be told, he can't be bothered to drag himself to the printer so he simply flicks through the lewd images until he finds what his mind has been quietly angling for - two men. 

He sits up slightly, grasps himself through his loose pants and brings the video to full screen. One of the men is already naked, spread out on the bed with his hard cock curved towards his toned stomach. Patrick's dick has yet to disapprove - it stirs as he snakes a hand into his pants and begins to stroke. He wonders if Pete did this, if Pete's fingers jerked him off, if he moaned for Pete like the man on the screen moans as his partner begins to touch him. 

Patrick isn't sure what to imagine; if he'd rather be the man underneath, three fingers pushed into his ass, his dick nestled in the other man's mouth, or the one on top, his hands grabbing at flawless thighs and forcing shudders through the other man's frame. Patrick notes that a lot of the things he likes about them are the same things he likes about women - their asses in particular, bared to the camera. 

He thinks about spreading apart those cheeks, sinking his cock into that waiting hole. He thinks about feeling stubble between his legs instead of the brush of long hair, of licking across firm pectorals instead of soft, pliable tits. His cock jumps in his hand, beginning to swell. The two men kiss, their tongues touching dirtily, and Patrick's lips fall open in subconscious mimicry, saliva rushing to his mouth. 

One of them is small, blond, the other darker, more muscled. Patrick wonders which he prefers - perhaps the darker one, if experience is anything to go by. Precome begins to leak from the head of his cock as the man shoves his pants off and runs a fist over his dick, lining it up with the other man's hole. He moves his hand to his balls simply to make himself last longer, his cock aching with need. 

The couple on the screen begin to fuck, their bodies writhing together, their grunts filling Patrick's hi-fi. He slides a hand underneath himself, his heart racing with arousal and desperate curiosity - the man screams out in pleasure as he's penetrated, the other man's dick plunging in and out of him. Patrick's fingers edge towards his own asshole, nudging between his cheeks through the fabric of his pants. 

It feels dirtier, somehow - dirtier than pumping his cock to the rhythm of their thrusts, dirtier than staring lustfully at the way the blond stretches around the other man - but he doesn't stop, sitting up and slipping his hand down the back of his pants and tracing the seam of his ass. He's never much thought about it before, whether it's a nice ass, whether he'd want someone admiring him like he admires women. An odd sense of vulnerability runs over him as he considers that Pete must have found him attractive, must have wanted to fuck him. 

He pushes between his cheeks with two fingers, finding the delicate pucker of his hole and tracing it lightly. His dick remains relatively indifferent, throbbing only for the wrap of his fingers around it and the sight of the two men fucking. He leans back, arches his spine to get a better angle, and pushes the tip of a finger into himself.

It feels strange, unnatural - he wriggles it around slightly, tries to discern whether his cock is at all responsive to this. It isn't - it simply sits impatiently in his hand, waiting for him to give it more attention. He thrusts up into his fist, imagining a warm body, a man's body. The man on the screen is fucking his partner at an almost brutal pace, their hips slapping together and their lips crashing into one another. 

He's so close - his cock aches with desperation, for the close of a hot mouth around it. He thinks of Pete, how his lips must have felt, how his face would look dripping with Patrick's come.  When release finally hits him, hot and hard and fast, it's Pete's image in his mind, the way he might look bouncing in Patrick's lap, face down on Patrick's floor. 

He spills over his hand, his belly, his chest glistening with sweat and his fingers still lodged between his asscheeks. He collapses onto the couch, panting and feeling the aftershocks run up and down his spine. A laugh laced with bewilderment trickles from his lips - .he goes to bed deep in thought, his mind whirring ceaselessly until the early hours of the morning.

When he flicks to his porn library the next evening, there's no gay sex to be found. 

-

"Next up we have - I mean, what's the point of introducing you, really," the interviewer laughs, waving a hand towards him. "Patrick Stump is in the studio with me, ladies and gentlemen - how's it going, Patrick?" 

"It's going good," Patrick smiles, leaning back in his chair. "Happy to be here." 

"Happy to have you," the interviewer replies, dripping with fakery. "So - president. That's a pretty big leap from banking, right?" 

"Yeah," Patrick nods, even though it isn't at all. Both involve shitting on the masses. "But I think of America like a complex company - you gotta keep it running smoothly, improve it where you can, and keep people moving up the ladder." 

"This is referring to your focus on businesses, right? So, do you consider yourself a banker or a politician?" 

"Oh - I'll always be a banker," Patrick says, waving a hand. "I know some people think that makes me a villain; but I know how to handle finances. And God knows this country needs a leader with some financial know-how."

The interviewer makes a strange noise into the mic. "And you think you're that leader?" 

"I would be here if I didn't," Patrick says smoothly. The interviewer purses his lips. 

"Okay, Patrick - let's get to know the real you. What do you do with yourself of an evening?" 

"Oh, that depends. I take a lot of time to respond to letters of support," - he doesn't, Andy arranges it - "and obviously the campaign takes a lot of planning." He hasn't had anything to do with his own campaign beyond his face and his signature. 

"What about friends, family?" the interviewer asks, and Patrick's been through this question so many times with Andy. 

"No matter how busy I am, I always make time for friends and family," he recites, "they're what keeps me going. I wouldn't be where I am without them." 

"And if you don't mind me asking," - Patrick doesn't, all the questions were previously approved by his team - "is there a lady in your life?" 

Patrick knows to let out a coy breath into the mic, to take a few seconds of nervous laughter before saying, "not - officially." 

"Ah," the interviewer says, "it's like that, is it? So there is someone?" 

"I'm afraid I can't disclose anything - yeah, my campaign manager is staring daggers at me right now," Patrick laughs, and it's fake, it's all so fake, "she's gonna kill me for saying this, but - you know when you just see someone, and you're like,  _ I gotta have you?"  _

"Is she listening?" the interviewer asks. 

"Probably," Patrick says, managing to blush on cue, "she'll be cooking breakfast right about now. Save me some bacon, honey!" 

"So you're a family man at heart?" 

"Yeah," Patrick nods, "totally. It was an important part of my campaign - to preserve that traditional family lifestyle, you know? We've kind of lost sight of that in recent years." 

"You're not a fan of the more unorthodox family structure, then?" 

"It's not that I'm against it - I just think that, like, there's a right way. Women are more suited to raising the kids, you know? People don't like to say it, but that's basic science. My girlfriend wants kids, and she'll be a great mother, and it irritates me that this whole  _ progressive  _ attitude is demonising that, you know?" 

The interviewer opens his mouth, and Patrick steels himself for the next question, keeping his face carefully blank. "What's your opinion on gay couples?" 

"As a whole? They can do what they like, as long as it doesn't affect me. I don't think any of us want it rubbed in our faces. The problems arise when you consider how much of the mainstream media they've infiltrated - do I think gay sex is wrong? No. Do I want my kids seeing it on TV? Absolutely not." 

"Right," the interviewer says, and Patrick wonders if he knows, if he can tell that Patrick has spent the last two nights masturbating to the thought of having sex with men. "Have you been met with a lot of support for those views?" 

"Yeah, I have," Patrick says, relaxing slightly, "I think people who share my views are often shut down, as if their opinions are invalid - so I'm speaking for them. The nuclear family is the backbone of America - we can't let it crumble." 

"Well said," the interviewer says, not meeting Patrick's eyes. "We're gonna take a break, but when we come back, we'll be testing Patrick's musical knowledge in another round of Celebritunes. See you in a few!" 

He plays the obnoxious jingle, then takes off his headphones and gets up. Patrick watches him leave, sees the glare he casts back. As soon as he's out of the room, he begins to shout. 

Patrick sits back, slides the headphones from his ears and scrapes his hair out of his face. Andy approaches him, gives him a pat on the shoulder. "That was good. You could have elaborated slightly about your feelings towards - homosexuality, but there'll be time for that later in the week." 

"What's his problem?" Patrick asks, nodding towards the window where the interviewer is throwing his hands about wildly. 

Andy rolls his eyes. "He doesn't like you. He's probably a fag." 

"Yeah," Patrick laughs. The residual worry in his chest squirms. 

"There's going to be backlash from this," Andy says, "we'll go over some possible responses to that later on. For now - just smile." 

Patrick puts on his sunniest grin and shines it in the nation's eyes. 

-

He eats dinner alone, the TV playing with the sound up. It's too quiet otherwise, too empty; his thoughts run wild in the silence. He's never had much to worry about, never encountered something he can't solve by throwing money at it, but now he stews, the anxiety chewing at his nerves. 

So far, he's tried clinging to the fact that he's not gay. He knows he likes girls, he's fucked enough of them to be certain of that. But no matter how much he tries to focus on that, to tell himself that he'll just stick to people with tits and be done with it, the other half of him demands exploration. He wants to try things he'd never thought about before last Friday, he wants to test the limits of this new lust. The fact that he's not allowed to only makes it more appealing.  

But the fear is something else. The consequences if people found out, the disgust, the accusations. The more he thinks about it, the more it becomes a secret, always at the front of his mind and on the tip of his tongue. His words have never quite been his own, always a little rehearsed, discussed, edited, but now they're beginning to chafe. He's been reduced to a downright liar. 

When his phone buzzes in his pocket, he tenses. It must be Andy, it's always Andy, what if he knows something, what if he's guessed - but when he takes the rectangle of glass in his hand, he sees Joe's name flashing on the surface. Joe, the worst PA in the business, the layabout stoner for whom Patrick cuts way too much slack. 

"Hey, Joe - you okay?" He's half expecting a request to pick Joe up from whatever ditch he's fallen in. 

"Yeah - uh, I'm outside," Joe replies, sounding a little like he's desperate for the bathroom. "Could you let me in? It's - sort of urgent." 

"Uh - alright," Patrick says.  _ Urgent  _ with Joe usually means he hasn't eaten in three days and wants a slice of Patrick's pizza. He hangs up. "Open the front door for Joe," he calls out, "and also all the other doors. And lock the front door behind him." 

Joe looks slightly pained when he finally stumbles into Patrick's kitchen - he's clutching his phone to his chest and he swallows when Patrick's gaze lands upon him. 

"What's up? The chef's just leaving, but I can ask him to cook you something if you like?" 

"No - no," Joe says, pacing towards Patrick and lowering his voice. "It's sort of - sensitive. Could we - go somewhere private?" 

"Right," Patrick says, panic jumping to his chest. "Let's go in my study." 

Patrick's study is minimalist, elegant, the lighting soft and the chairs comfy. He sits behind his desk and tries not to let his mind run away with him. It'll be something stupid, he knows it. 

But the look on Joe's face is one Patrick hasn't seen since Joe first started - fear. His hands shake as he pushes a small paper bag towards Patrick. "Okay - look. This is just - something I heard about and I didn't know what to do so I just did what I thought would be best and I have no idea whether it was the right thing or not. I - just, if you hit me, please don't aim for the face." 

"What's going on," Patrick hisses, "I'm not gonna fucking hit you, just tell me." 

Joe gulps, wrings his hands together. "Okay so - so I kind of heard a rumour that - that you'd - you'd - I mean I'm sure it's not true, but - that you'd been with a dude? Like, sexy stuff?" 

Ice slips down Patrick's spine. "Right. And you believe everything you hear, do you?" he says, anger building in his chest. 

"No - no - sir, of course not, I -" 

"You think I'm a fucking fag, is that why you interrupted my fucking dinner? To come and accuse me of that?!" Patrick shouts suddenly, his composure falling away. Joe visibly jumps, his eyes wide and his hands clutching the arms of the chair. 

"No - I'm sorry, that's not why I came here -" 

"Then why? What have you got to tell me that's so fucking important?" 

"I - okay - basically, this store - Recollections - was saying that they - uh -" he lowers his voice, "that they have a memory of you. With someone. A man." 

Patrick's jaw clenches tight. "Okay..." 

"And - I didn't know what to do and I think that might be like - defamation or whatever so - so - I bought it. I didn't look at it! I just - thought you should. Just to - confirm. You know? It's probably fake but - but I didn't wanna assume, I - just. Yeah. It's in the bag." 

Patrick stares at the crumpled slip of brown paper on the desk. Pete must have spilled, somehow. Pete sold their night together. For some reason, that bothers him more than the rumour. 

Joe stares at him as he picks up the bag and tips out the tiny chip of metal. Patrick's been silent for too long, if he'd never slept with a man then he'd have no reason to look at it at all, no reason to look so terrified as he gazes at it. Patrick's faking reflex kicks in once again - he forces out a laugh. 

"This is utter bullshit," he says, "what the fuck? There's some shop out there that thinks I'm a cocksucker? God, people will do anything for a fucking profit, won't they. I'll watch fucking five seconds of it and then I'm throwing it out, alright?" 

Joe nods, his back pressed tight to the chair. Patrick rolls his eyes and presses the memory to his temple. 

 

Five seconds later and he's back in the room, peeling the metal from his skin and slamming it down on the table. His fingers shake. 

"And?" Joe says, biting on his thumbnail. 

"What do you think?" Patrick laughs, "Of course it was a fake. It's some other fat blond guy." 

"Oh - okay, phew," Joe says, "I'm so sorry I interrupted, I was just - I didn't know what to do." 

"Nah," Patrick says, shifting in his seat. Joe needs to leave, now, or he’ll witness one of the most powerful men in America sobbing like a child. "I'll make sure you're reimbursed for this. Did you - uh, happen to mention this to Andy?" 

Joe shakes his head. "No - I thought it'd be best to go to you first." 

"Good. Yeah, it was. And - y'know, Andy's pretty busy right now, he's pretty stressed with the campaign - it's probably best if you don't mention this to him. It'll just - worry him, y'know? I'll tell him when the time is right." 

"Understood," Joe says, standing up and breathing a sigh of what sounds like relief. "I'm sorry, again." 

Patrick rakes a smile across his face. "’S fine.” 

"Thanks, Mr. Stump," he says sheepishly, backing towards the door. "See you - uh..." 

“Thursday,” Patrick says, strained. 

Joe nods and shuts the door behind him. Patrick's composure collapses. 

Breathing hard, he stares down at the slip of metal in front of him. Panic spins through his brain, clouds his vision. He runs a hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose as if it might still the whirring; it doesn't. It must be a dream, it has to be a dream. 

Of course it was Pete. Patrick knew, somehow, from the moment Joe stepped in the room that this was something to do with Pete. He knew as soon as the memory was on the table that it would depict Pete and him, he knew, in his heart of hearts, that it was proof of him sleeping with a man. 

What he did not expect was the absence of drunken haze, of fur floors, of purple. Five seconds of bodies and naked smiles was all it took to reveal a different incident altogether. 

He thinks about bursting into tears. He thinks about hurling the memory from the window, snapping it into a hundred pieces, crushing it beneath his heel. Instead, he takes a deep breath, balances the slip of metal on one fingertip, and presses it to his temple. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, here we go again! 
> 
> So we did Patrick last week - and wow, you guys have no mercy. He's a funny fish, I'll admit - but what do we think of Pete? Spineless loser or budding insurgent? Let me know in the comments! 
> 
> Enjoy!

"It's a prank," is the first thing Joanna says when Pete shows her the notebook. She laughed when he first told her - then stopped laughing when he nearly cried. Now, she's sat next to him on his couch, tracing over the words as if they might change if she rubs at them enough. 

"Maybe," Pete sighs, running a hand through greasy hair. His temples throb with stress - it's nearly midnight. Pete wonders what on earth he was doing twenty-four hours ago. Sucking Patrick Stump's cock, according to his own handwriting.

"It has to be," she states, "because - you just  _ wouldn't  _ sleep with him. Like, no amount of alcohol could make you do that."

"I'm not sure," Pete shrugs, "If I was hammered, maybe I wouldn't have noticed." 

"Pete. This is  _ Stump.  _ He's, like, the fattest, ugliest human being in America. I think you'd have noticed that. Plus, if someone was gonna make you think you'd slept with anyone at all, he's pretty much everyone's first choice of undesirable celebrity," Joanna reasons. Pete nods, unconvinced.

"But that's  _ my  _ handwriting. And  _ my  _ pen," he says, feeling his throat tighten with oncoming tears. "I just - what if I  _ did? _ "

"You  _ didn't _ ," she says, with so much confidence that he almost believes her. "You wouldn't have." 

"I mean - he's pretty much the only person I could have slept with that would have had the power to erase my memory of it," Pete points out, "and - if you say I was at that party..." 

"He's straight," she counters, "he's the straightest straight guy out there. No-one gay could ever be such an ass." 

"Anyone's gay if they're drunk enough," Pete says. "And it sounds like we were pretty drunk. Or - maybe he  _ is  _ gay. Oh God, I bet I fucking did." He drops his head to his hands and tells himself he can't cry again. Whatever happened, he can't change it. 

"No,you  _ didn't,"  _ Joanna emphasises, "and by the looks of it, you'll never know otherwise, so you might as well think the best of it." 

"True," he says, "but - but -  _ ugh."  _ He imagines Stump looming over him and feels a little sick. 

"You didn't sleep with him," Joanna decides, "it's a joke." 

"Okay," he says, giving in. But the truth is, he trusts his notebook more than his own mind - he can feel in his soul that what's written is correct. But Joanna shuts it and places it on the coffee table, leaning back on the couch and watching Pete carefully. 

"Are you doing okay?" she asks, casual yet laced with concern. 

Pete nods. "Yeah. A lot better, now that the surgery's up and running." 

"Good," she says, "and don't let this worry you. Even if you did - and you  _ didn't  _ \- it doesn't matter. I mean - it's gross and horrid and you might wanna disinfect yourself, but it's not the end of the world. You put that he wanted to do it again - which it looks like you didn't. So - you didn't just  _ sleep  _ with Patrick Stump, you also  _ dumped  _ Patrick Stump. That's - pretty cool, actually." 

Pete's unsure whether  _ cool  _ is the right word for it, but he smiles anyway, his hunched frame relaxing slightly. "Maybe he's devastated. Maybe he's pining over me as we speak." 

" _ Oh, Pete, we had but one blissful night and now my heart is filled with woe - I fear I may die if you don't plough me by the morrow,"  _ she mocks. "I fucking hope he dies." 

Pete nods, laughs, worries. 

-

He's eating breakfast when his office phone begins to trill. He's spent the last few days telling himself that there's no use dwelling on it, that it's a mystery he'll never solve, that whatever happened was clearly sorted to Stump's satisfaction. That doesn't mean he doesn't shudder every time he sees Stump's beaming face, retch every time he thinks of getting anywhere near the man's genitals. 

The surgery isn't officially open yet, but God knows that his customers have about as much respect for his opening hours as they do for him, so he shoves the rest of his cereal bar into his mouth and reaches for the button. 

"Memory Lane Surgery," he says between chews, "how can I help?" 

"Uh - can I speak to - uh - Pete? Please? Peter - uh, Wentz?"

"Speaking," Pete says. Then he recognises the voice at the other end of the phone, and chokes oats over the desk. "Hey -" 

"Yeah, it's me. Mr - Patrick. It's Patrick." 

"Stump?" Pete hisses into the mic, "what - why -"

"I need to talk to you," he replies, and Pete fears he already knows what this is about. "In person. You free tonight?" 

"Is this about Friday?" Pete asks, his mind reeling and his stomach twisting. "Did we - did - "

"You remember?" Stump asks, and the all-but confirmation makes Pete's heart sink. "I thought they'd removed it." 

"They did," Pete croaks, blinking back the tears that creep to his eyes. "I write stuff down." 

"Oh. Clever," Stump remarks, and Pete feels a shot of hatred rush through him. The man is repulsive. "Can you come over tonight? I'll send a car."

Pete bites his lip - he needs time to think, to process. "This isn't, like - a booty call, is it?" he says quietly, just to put one of his gnawing worries to rest. 

"No! I'm not  _ fucking gay,  _ okay?" Stump snaps, "I just need to talk to you, but not over the fucking phone. Alright?" 

Pete doesn't suppose he has much of a choice. He massages the bridge of his nose and lets out a slow breath. "Fine." 

"Good. The car will pick you up at seven. Don't tell anyone. And, don't give this number to anyone, this is a secure line." 

Pete makes to reply, but Stump's already hung up. 

The wall offers no sympathy. Self-disgust writhes inside him, upset stings at his eyes. He's been naked with Patrick Stump. It hardly bears thinking about. 

"Hey - Pete?" Joanna suddenly bursts, swinging into his office and clearly ready for a rant, "did you fucking  _ hear  _ what that dick said on the radio yesterday?" 

Pete looks at her slowly, wonders if he should stop her. He doesn't. 

"He said that women were fucking more suited to raising kids. Like, we're supposed to be fucking  _ incubators  _ or something. Oh - and you should have heard the way he talked about his poor fucking girlfriend, like she's his fucking carer, we should start a petition to get her out of there, imagine having him fucking humping you every night,  _ God - _ "

"Jo," Pete starts, raising a hand to slow her down. He's going to tell her, he's going to reveal that he fucked the person she hates most in the world, he's going to - no. He isn't. "I'm just a bit - tired, is all. Could we talk about this later?" 

She frowns, but nods curiously. "Sure, I just - yeah. Sorry, he just - gets to me, y'know?" 

At that, Pete almost laughs. "Yeah," he says, "I know." 

-

Pete spends the rest of the day worrying himself into a frenzy. Luckily for him, eighteen-year-olds aren't too big on empathy, so no-one asks the reason behind his scowl. His days of wiring are mostly behind him, though, and he gets away with cowering in his office for a large portion of his remaining hours. 

He's home by six, time enough to panic in the shower and take a few gulps of cold soup from the can to settle his stomach. His hands are shaking as he attempts to write everything he's feeling in his notebook, everything he thinks is going to happen, since there's a large chance that tomorrow, he won't remember any of this. 

By the time he's in the car, sweaty and fidgeting, his mind has worked itself into a frenzy, attempting to consider all possible options, analyse every single outcome. He wonders what Stump will say, how he'll say it, whether Pete will find himself with a gun to his head and tears down his face by the end of the evening. 

He's expecting bouncers, metal detectors, a network of lasers across Stump's driveway, but sees none. The gates simply whir into life and reveal sweeping gravel, tended gardens and a water fountain lit with swimming purple lights. Pete swallows, looks up at the towering shard of glass that is the Stump mansion. 

There's no driver, so Pete simply creeps out of the car himself and shuffles along the path, watching for soldiers and jumping at oddly-shaped shadows. The double doors seem to approach him out of nowhere, standing abruptly in front of him and making him question why on earth he got in the car in the first place. There's no door handle, no doorbell, so Pete simply shifts from foot to foot and hopes his presence has been announced. The strange topiary studding the lawn is beginning to scare him. 

When the doors finally swing open, there's no-one there. He breathes a sigh of relief, and hops over the threshold, glad for the few more moments he's been granted to compose himself. He wears a clean suit and his smartest shoes, yet even the pot plants make him look shabby. 

The ground floor seems to be some kind of entertainment area, a pool table set up in centre and a few armchairs scattered around. None of it looks well-used. Steeling himself, he heads towards the elevator. He tells himself he's ready for a fight. 

He's expecting something vaguely official - a meeting room, a set of papers to sign, a formal discussion overseen by Hurley's watchful eye. What he gets is Patrick Stump in a t-shirt and boxer shorts, slumped over a chocolate milkshake. 

"Uh - hi?" Pete says as he steps into the room. "Are you - alright?" 

Patrick looks up at him, eyes icy. "Do I fucking look it?" he asks. He doesn't. His hair is uncombed, his voice clogged with what Pete refuses to accept are tears. Stump can't cry - if he could, he'd have wept an ocean for all the people he's starved. 

Pete simply purses his lips and decides that this at least means he has some power over the situation. "What's wrong?" he asks, shuffling closer. 

Stump throws a boiling glare at Pete and slides off the stool, grabbing his milkshake and sloping towards the lounge. Pete follows, more than a little nervous, as Stump leads him through to a study and gestures for him to sit down. 

"So," Stump sighs, slouching in his seat and taking another sip of his milkshake. "We fucked." 

Pete nods slowly, trying not to dwell on that particular fact. 

"And you don't remember?" Stump asks, a hint of something sour creeping through his tone. 

Pete shakes his head. "I believe the memory was removed." 

"So, for all you know, we only did it once?" 

Pete nods again, tension coiling in his shoulders. He's not sure he likes where this is going. 

"Then how the  _ fuck,"  _ Stump snaps suddenly, "do you explain  _ this?"   _ He slams his hand down in front of Pete, and when he lifts it, a memory chip sits smug on the table. 

"I don't know what that is," Pete states. "If someone sold the memory, it was one of your people. I can assure you that I didn't -" 

"It's  _ different, _ " Stump hisses, his blue eyes cutting into Pete as their gazes meet. 

"I - I don't think I know what you mean," Pete says, watching Stump as if he might explode at any moment. 

"Oh, I think you do," Stump growls, "it's different. It's not Friday night. It's a  _ different fucking memory _ ." 

Pete's mind freezes for a few seconds as he tries to process this and fails. "Wait - so - this memory is of us having sex?" 

"Yes," Stump spits. 

"But - it's not the one from Friday night?" Pete's head spins as he says the words. This can't be happening. 

"No, it's a fucking different memory. From a different fucking night." Stump's voice shakes with something swinging between anger and upset. 

"So - so - we've - we've slept together before?" Pete says, staring down at the square of metal and wondering if this is some sort of elaborate prank. 

Stump just nods, sits back in his chair and runs a hand over his face. "Who are you, Pete? Are you a fucking stalker?" 

"Wha - no!" Pete exclaims, "I don't remember! I met you less than a week ago, I have no recollection of sleeping with you whatsoever, let alone of - whatever this other memory is!" 

"Look - I know you hate me, just - don't lie to me," Stump says. "You really never met me before last week?" 

Pete shakes his head. "My right hand to God." 

Stump sighs, resting tired eyes upon Pete. Then he shrugs heavily. "Fine. Well, I guess I don't have anything else to go on. It's your memory, after all." 

Pete considers the piece of his past in front of him, the stretch of unaccounted-for time before his notebook begins. "Can I watch it?" he asks. 

"Yeah," Stump nods, "I did. It's - interesting." 

Pete fidgets in his seat for a few seconds before reaching for the memory and staring at it in the palm of his hand. He thinks about chickening out, about closing this particular door and running as far as his legs will carry him - then he presses the chip to his temple. The room begins to dissolve. 

-

"Ouch! You - fuckin' kneed me, man," a familiar voice says as its body blurs into view. Pete wakes in the memory to the sight of his own naked lap, his knees braced around an equally naked Patrick Stump. The familiar feeling of disgust doesn't make itself known - the memory gives him only a soft, contented feeling as he laughs, leans to press his mouth to Stump's with no hesitation. 

He attempts to look around, but can see only white sheets over Patrick's shoulder, wooden bed posts pressed to the wall. It's light, sun-filled, as are Stump's eyes as he looks up at Pete and slides his hands over Pete's hips. He looks younger, maybe twenty or so, his sideburns more sparse and his frame smaller, rounded with puppy fat. 

"Uh - you wanna ride me?" Stump asks with a smile, "'cause that'd be neat." 

Pete feels self-consciousness ripple over his skin. "Do - would you like that?" 

Stump laughs, nods. "Yeah, why wouldn't I?" 

"I don't know - I'm just, y'know, I've not - done that a lot before, I'm probably not that good, I -" 

He's cut off by the warmth of lips against his own. Patrick's a surprisingly gentle kisser - his hand moves to cup Pete's jaw, his thumb stroking over Pete's cheek. The Pete in the memory kisses back, enveloping Patrick's bottom lip, threading his hands through Patrick's hair. It's unstyled, messy, and when they pull apart it falls in golden strands over Patrick's face. There's a beauty about him that both past and present Pete can plainly see. 

"You'll be amazing," Patrick purrs, affectionate and devoid of his usual lechery. "Or - we can just make out. Whatever you want, honey." 

The pet name makes even past Pete squirm, but there's such warmth to Patrick's expression that his anxiety begins to dissipate, and he leans to connect their mouths once again. 

"I don't know," Pete mumbles against Patrick's lips, "I'm just - kind of - nervous," he says with a slight laugh, feeling the anxiety throb in his chest. 

"I could blow you, if you like?" Patrick says with a grin, "I'm good with my mouth." 

Pete giggles, rests his thumb against Patrick's bottom lip until Patrick starts to lick at the tip. "I know," Pete breathes, arousal sinking to the pit of his stomach. Patrick's hard already; there's still an air of teenage lust about him, his hands fidget on Pete's hips and his eyes flit over Pete's body, skittish under his guise of experience. 

Still, there's nothing rushed about the way he guides Pete back onto the sheets, the way he presses kisses across Pete's neck and chest, drags his tongue over Pete's nipples. Pete feels himself gasp, writhe under Patrick's touch, the line between watching and experiencing beginning to blur. 

By the time Patrick touches his mouth to Pete's cock, Pete's fully hard and aching, his precome glistening on Patrick's bottom lip. Patrick's a tease, licking gently at the head, placing open-mouthed kisses along Pete's length, sucking Pete's balls into his mouth whilst stroking at Pete's inner thighs. 

"Please," Pete chokes out, "God, Patrick, please." 

Patrick shoots a grin from between Pete's thighs, and in the same second, sinks his mouth over Pete's cock, a rumbling moan sending shockwaves over Pete's skin. It becomes clear that Patrick has a hidden talent - he's a natural cocksucker, a connoisseur. Pete's mind briefly breaks itself away from the memory to consider that Stump hates gays, Stump is straight as a rod; but Pete can only dwell on this for a fraction of a second before the pleasure of the moment overwhelms him. 

He takes it slow, a delicacy, sucking at the head before sinking all the way down, his hands clamped around Pete's hips. Every so often, he glances up at Pete, eyes lit with lust and faux innocence, and Pete feels his cock throb at the sight. Each time Pete starts to topple over the edge, Patrick pauses, takes his mouth away, squeezes long fingers around the base of Pete's cock and holds him back. It's utterly agonising. 

"God - Patrick,  _ do  _ something," Pete breathes as Patrick sucks absent kisses into his thighs, oblivious to Pete's suffering. 

Patrick's mouth bites ever closer to Pete's swollen cock. "What would you like me to do?" he asks sweetly, and Pete wonders if he could kick Patrick in the balls from this angle. 

"Suck me, you dick," Pete whines, snaking a hand into Patrick's hair and attempting to get his cock in Patrick's mouth, "please." 

"You gonna fuck my face?" Patrick grins, nuzzling at Pete's crotch. 

Uncertainty flickers in the back of Pete's mind. "I - only if you, like, want that," he stammers, nerves tightening his shoulders. 

But Patrick just flashes that easy smile and licks a white-hot stripe up Pete's cock. "Do it, honey." He runs his tongue over his lips and leaves his mouth hanging open, eyes dancing with expectation. Pete can only handle so much. 

He guides Patrick's lips over his cock, feeling the slick warmth of Patrick's mouth against the tip, the tightness of his throat. He thrusts shallowly, the sensations making his head spin and his heart race. Patrick moans weakly as Pete's hips move, each snap driving his cock deeper into Patrick's throat. He's so close, each contraction of Patrick's mouth pushing him closer to the edge, until he feels the high rush into him and lifts Patrick's head away as he starts to come, wanting to spill over Patrick's face. 

Patrick doesn't close his mouth, simply lets it fall into a dazed grin as Pete comes, strands spurting over his nose and lips. Pete relaxes into the bed, lost in pleasure, only sitting up when he realises what he's done. 

"I - I'm sorry," he gasps, "I should've asked, I didn't mean to -" 

But Patrick's already licking the come from his lips and shaking his head. "That was hot," he smiles, "you were all, like - into it, and stuff." 

"I'm sorry, I think I got carried away, it just felt so -" 

"Shh," Patrick purrs, sliding up the bed to kiss Pete's neck. "It was hot." By the time he reaches Pete's lips, he's rough with his mouth, pushing their tongues together with a hunger that Pete only understands once he sees that Patrick's still hard, his hips rutting against Pete's side. 

"Oh - you can fuck me if you like," Pete offers, "I said I'd ride you, I can -" 

"Nah," Patrick breathes, "just -" he kisses Pete hard, his hands roaming over Pete's body. Pete snakes a hand between them and grasps at Patrick's cock, jerking him tight and fast. "Yeah," Patrick murmurs, "oh God, that's - yeah." 

Patrick comes quickly, moaning against Pete's mouth, spilling across Pete's stomach. Sweat pools in his clavicle and his chest has flushed a soft pink to match his cheeks. How lovely he looks like this is just crossing Pete's mind when he remembers that this is a memory - that this man is revolting, selfish, cruel. He tries to pull away from Stump's kisses, and as he does so, the room begins to crumble away. 

-

When he wakes up, his chest is heaving and his mouth feels raw. He grips the arms of the chair to keep the world from swaying, his mind grappling to understand what he just experienced. He was in a relationship with Patrick Stump.  _ He was in a relationship with Patrick Stump.  _

Stump is nowhere to be seen - his desk chair is empty and his milkshake has gone. Pete can't quite comprehend the breadth of meaning this holds. He not only slept with Stump; he  _ liked  _ him, and felt liked in return. The man in the memory seemed - Pete wouldn't go as far as to say  _ kind,  _ but perhaps at least  _ nice.  _ The man peering at Pete from the doorway is cowardly, callous and crude. 

"You done?" he says, and Pete can only stare, marvel at the complications his brain is beginning to sort through. 

"I - don't -  _ what?!"  _ is the only sentence Pete can string together. 

Stump sighs, shrugs. "'S pretty wild, right?"

Pete can think of a lot of words for it other than  _ wild.  _ But all he can really comprehend is the fact that this is a piece of his old life. The life he thought he'd lost, the life he'd spent months on end trying to discover. And it's a disappointment. 

Before, he could at least kid himself that he'd been a war hero, or a spy, or a revolutionary. He'd put his nerves down to emotional scars, his weakness down to being too strong for too long. Instead, he's the same old Pete, anxious and stammering and unsure. And he's in the arms of Patrick Stump. This is perhaps the worst possible outcome. 

Stump shuffles further into the room. "I only left 'cause - well - you were, y'know, into it." 

Pete only knows what Stump means once his eyes trail to Pete's crotch, and Pete feels a dampness in his briefs. He moves to cover himself, but there's no use; Stump's apparently seen him come several times before, so what does it matter. What does any of it matter. 

"So, what the  _ fuck  _ is this?" Stump asks, making his way over to the desk. Pete's never hated him more. 

He stares at the chip in his hand. It should have been more than this. 

"Uh - so, should we talk about this?" Stump asks. Pete wishes he'd shut his mouth. "My PA bought it from this one store. But - you can keep it. It's yours anyway. Don't know where the hell my half is. I mean, that's a piece of my  _ life,  _ man, like -" 

"I don't care," Pete says heavily. "I don't give a shit where your fucking half is. I don't want this. I don't want my fucking life back if that's what it is." 

"But - we're, like,  _ together,  _ man - I mean, I fuck a lot of people, but - I dunno, I think -" 

Pete looks up and glares daggers at him. "I don't give a shit what you think. I don't wanna fucking  _ work this out.  _ Any life where I'm in a relationship with you is a fucking shitty one." 

Stump looks vaguely bewildered as Pete stands up and shoves his chair away. "Dude - you can't just leave, this is like - a massive thing, I'm not even gay, but -" 

"You like men, Stump," Pete spits, "accept it. I like any men but you. You're a slimy, selfish bastard and I'd rather have no life at all than a life with you." 

He walks away. Stump falls silent. 

Pete manages to make it out of the front door before he starts to break down.    
  
  
  



	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello! 
> 
> Did you know I also have a tumblr @the-chaotic-panda if you wanna come talk to me? I'll drunk text you memes, it'll be fun! 
> 
> Enjoy :D

"Mr Stump!" someone shouts, "can we get a photo?"   
  
Patrick turns to yet another group of wide-eyed teenagers and broadens his grin. "Sure," he says, taking the phone that's thrust towards him and snapping a picture of mostly his own face. "Thanks for your support."   
  
"Could you sign this?" another asks, waving a scrap of paper and a pen at him. "I'm doing financial management. Any pointers?"   
  
Patrick looks him up and down. He's a kid in a suit, a pathetic attempt at a beard scattered over his chin, pimples decorating his forehead. "Be lucky," Patrick says, handing his pen and paper back. The young man frowns and Patrick moves on.   
  
"Mr Stump!" a reporter calls, running to catch up with him as he walks towards the limousine. "Could you comment on the recent food shortages in the south?"   
  
"Awful," Patrick says as he throws a smile towards a group of middle-aged women. "Just awful. No American should be left to starve."   
  
"What about non-Americans?" the reporter asks, but Marcus is already bundling Patrick into the back of the car and slamming the door behind him. They begin to pull away from the MANIACorp building as crowd waves their flags, shouts their praise. Patrick savours the chant of his name.   
  
-   
  
"Traitor!" someone shrieks from the jostling crowd below. Patrick keeps his eyes unfocused.   
  
"And it'll become easier than ever to exchange memories. They will become currency, effectively - we want to give you greater freedom, to - to do whatever you want with your own minds," Patrick stumbles. He's off his game and his whole team knows it. The people stare back at him, unimpressed.   
  
"Fascist!" another voice yells, and the crowd bubbles with agreement, surging towards the barriers between them and the stage. The voice in Patrick's ear tells him to keep talking.   
  
"What we plan to do will - will benefit the nation, the whole nation, and - uh -" he says, pausing as a baby begins to scream. "You'll - you'll feel the benefits of a more flexible market in less than five years."   
  
A loafer flies past Patrick's ear. The crowd cackles, the man who threw it encouraging cheers.   
  
"I want to bring you a - a - uh," Patrick falters, the autocue stuttering, "a better America. A stronger economy that - that -"   
  
_ Keep going _ , his earpiece buzzes,  _ just keep talking _ . The crowd writhes all of a sudden, yells erupting from a pocket of people. Patrick stands, confused, until a gunshot rings around the square. After that, everything happens rather quickly.   
  
Marcus is on him in an instant, covering Patrick with his whole body and shoving him away from the podium as screams burst from the crowd. He's pushed down the steps of the stage where soldiers force their way into the fray, voices and guns raised. Patrick's head spins with the noise.   
  
There's no time for his vision to steady as Marcus manhandles him towards the limousine, a hand pushing his head down and ducking it into the car. They're pulling away within half a second of the door slamming.   
  
Patrick breathes out, his heart hammering against his ribs and his vision spinning. A man yells obscenities from the centre of the crowd, his eyes meeting Patrick's through the crush of panicked bodies, condemning Patrick with a point of his finger. Patrick looks away when the man is smothered by soldiers. Another shot sounds - his shouts cease.   
  
"Damn imbeciles," Hurley mutters from opposite Patrick. "What do they expect to achieve?"   
  
Patrick doesn't meet his eyes. His insides feel as if they're twisting to breaking point.   
  
"This was bound to happen in the south," Hurley drawls, "they don't know what's good for them. What happened to the speech? Did you not read over it?"   
  
Patrick didn't, but that issue seems unfathomably distant as the gunshot rings in his ears. He wonders how desperate someone has to be to risk such a stunt. "I - I was busy."   
  
"Mr. Stump, you really must prepare for these things, you sounded like a schmuck up there. I expect a better performance next time."   
  
Perhaps the man had a family. Or perhaps he didn't, perhaps he'd lost everything and his last wish was to wipe Patrick off the face of the earth. Patrick's used to hatred, to insults, to death threats, but he's never seen a rage so visceral that it overtakes self preservation. He's never seen a life taken because of his actions. He’s becoming more nauseous by the second.   
  
"Mr. Stump? Are you listening to me?"   
  
"Couldn't they have just - arrested him?" Patrick asks.   
  
"And have him live to take another shot at you? No, no," Hurley tuts, "he'd have been euthanized anyway. This way is just - quicker."   
  
In that moment, Patrick feels a swell of hatred towards Andy. For once, he's not inclined to agree. "Can we change that?"   
  
"Change what?" Andy asks, his bespectacled gaze meeting Patrick's.   
  
"Soldiers shouldn't have that much power," he blurts, the sentence lodging itself in the air between them and refusing to budge. Andy's eyes narrow.   
  
"Mr. Stump - I realise that you're shaken and that you're having an off week - but I recommend that you don't ever say that again. To anyone."   
  
"But -"   
  
"No, Patrick," Andy snaps. "They protect us. They serve us. They saved your life. They're an essential part of this country. That kind of talk could get you arrested."   
  
Patrick simply chews on his lip. A storm brews in his brain. The man's shouts echo in Patrick's ears.   
  
-   
  
Home seems an unfamiliar place, now. It all feels slightly wrong, as if everything's been shifted three inches to the left since Pete's visit. He can barely relax - even his king-sized bed offers little comfort, satin sheets doing nothing to stop him lying awake for hours on end.

  
He doesn't do relationships. The girlfriends he's had have been few and far between - all beautiful, all doting, all neglected or cheated on. Faithfulness isn't in his nature - he decided long ago that the confines of monogamy hindered the progress of his increasingly ambitious cock.    
  
And yet, that memory was unlike any version of himself he's lived. In Pete's eyes, he was generous, he was considerate. He made Pete feel wanted but not pressured, relaxed but not bored. He feels a strange jealousy towards the kid in the memory - he looked barely college age, yet he had an easy confidence that Patrick finds it hard to hate him for. 

 

Self-assurance is a distant memory. Before that fateful party, he knew himself. Now, the man that looks back from dressing room mirrors is a stranger. 

He tries calling Pete once more. He's tried twice a day for the past week, no answer. He's not sure what he's hoping will happen - perhaps Pete will turn up at his doorstep, cry with him about their shared past. But the phone rings out, as always. Pete doesn't want to see him ever again - Patrick heard his sobs from two floors up. 

 

But Patrick can't keep his mind from it. He tries to shut it out, to tell himself that it doesn't matter who he was, only who he is. The onslaught of press conferences help him forget only by reminding him of the look in the man’s eyes before he was shot in the head. He's beginning to hate his own smiling image. 

 

“Ready?” Hurley asks as Patrick's neck is wrung with a purple tie. Patrick chews on the inside of his cheek, the lie sitting neatly on the tip of his tongue. 

“Yeah,” he nods. He can hear the buzz of journalists from the other side of the door. He nearly jumps out of his skin when Andy claps him on the shoulder. 

“Solemn, but optimistic, okay? Easy on the smiles, they want to see your professional side.”

“Okay,” Patrick replies, turning to face the door and feeling his throat tighten with nerves he shouldn't be feeling. He doesn't get stage fright. He wonders what else he's frightened of. 

“...Mr. Stump, what did you feel at the time of the incident?” 

Patrick folds his arms neatly over the desk and shakes his head. “Honestly? I was terrified,” he states. “I hear the shot, and the next thing I know, I’m being driven away. It all happened very quickly.”

“Will the incident affect how you run your campaign? For instance, your stance on gun control?”

Patrick shakes his head. “I think that man would have taken that shot whether his firearm was legal or not.” 

“Has the offender been caught?”

“The man in question is currently in police custody,” the sergeant informs the audience. Patrick stares. This wasn't mentioned in the briefing. “He’ll be put on remand until his trial.”

“Uh - what?” Patrick says, and the murmur of the audience falls silent. All eyes turn to Patrick. He can't say this, he  _ knows  _ he can't say it - and yet it seems there's little he can do to stop himself. “He's dead.”

The sergeants face flashes with alarm. Then he looks back towards the journalists. “That's - Mr. Stump is mistaken. The offender was arrested and escorted to the station.”

“No,” Patrick ploughs on, “no, he was shot in the street. I saw it, I saw those fucking soldiers kill him.”

“That's not true,” the sergeant assures the buzzing audience. “With all due respect, Mr. Stump doesn't know what he saw.”

“Yes, I do, he's dead, and you know it,” Patick growls into the mic, “do you just lie for a living? Is that all the police are good for these days, covering up the crimes of the fucking trigger-happy wannabe action men that terrorise the streets -”

His mic cuts off. At the same moment, a hand clamps down on his shoulder. “Stop talking,” Andy hisses, “for God’s sake, stop talking.”

"It seems there's been some miscommunication between the police and Mr. Stump's team," the sergeant says. Patrick can feel Andy hovering behind him. 

"Backtrack," he whispers, "backtrack right now." Patrick looks up, and fifty pairs of expectant eyes look back. Phones glow in their hands - his words are spreading further with each crack of his heart against his ribs. It's more memories than even Andy can erase. For once, Patrick Stump doesn't know what to say.

"Uh," Patrick starts, his cheeks aflame and his tongue struggling to twist its way out of this one, "I guess I could be wrong. There was a lot of confusion - I was panicked." It's not a lie - he  _ was  _ panicked. He  _ is  _ panicked. He's been panicked ever since he got hard over another man's cock. 

There's a strange mix of sickness, humiliation and anger writhing in his gut. He wonders if he should just go the whole hog and tell them he's slept with men - it rests on the tip of his tongue, ready to ruin him. His throat tightens at the thought. The sergeant takes over, explaining to the journalists that Mr. Stump got it wrong, Mr. Stump didn't know what he was seeing, Mr. Stump, Mr. Stump, Mr. Stump. Mr. Stump knows what he saw. Mr. Stump wishes he were someone else.

Patrick keeps his eyes fixed upon a loose piece of skin on his forefinger, scraping at it with his thumb. It doesn't fall off - it simply frays, red and ragged. He bites, hard, on the inside of his cheek until copper bursts across his tongue. He's never known anxiety, nor self-consciousness, but in this moment it feels as if each and every one of the people in the room is leafing through his soul, reading his thoughts, invading his privacy. They seem to know more about who Patrick Stump is than Patrick himself. 

"Anything else you'd like to say, Mr. Stump?" the sergeant asks. Patrick shakes his head. It seems he's said quite enough. 

-

"What in the name of  _ fuck  _ were you playing at?!" Andy yells as he slams the bathroom door behind him and marches towards Patrick, who made the mistake of thinking he could hide in the toilets like a middle-schooler. "I told you to stay on script! Or did that not quite make it through your skull?" 

"You didn't tell me they were gonna fucking lie!" Patrick replies, his desire to shrink back overrun by a bubbling anger. "That guy was murdered! Don't people deserve to know about that?" 

"Do they deserve to know where your dick's been?" Andy snaps. "Do they deserve to know that your girlfriend doesn't exist? The government lies, Patrick. It's for the good of the country." 

"This is - different," Patrick says, "this is someone's life. You can't just pretend it didn't happen." 

"Have you ever heard about something like this on the news?" Andy asks, his tone icy. Patrick shakes his head. "Well. There you go. The police are well-versed in cover-ups." 

Patrick feared as much. "I stand by what I said. I think the soldiers should be disciplined." 

"Oh,  _ now  _ you give a shit about politics? You can't pick and choose when to pay attention, Patrick!" Andy shouts. Patrick's not sure he's ever seen him this angry. Patrick reckons he could beat him in a fight. "You'll have to grovel. Tell them you were wrong. I'll arrange an interview, I'll-" 

"No," Patrick says. "I'm not backing down. I know what I saw. I won't lie about something like this." 

"How  _ moral  _ of you," Andy hisses. "Care to climb off your high horse and focus on winning this election?" 

The election. It seems a tiny, inconsequential dot on Patrick's radar. If winning means he has to stand up on a podium and condone murder, he's not sure he'd like to play the game. "I won't grovel," he says, folding his arms and puffing out his chest. 

Andy's eyes narrow. "Alright, Patrick. I'll give you a choice. Either you spend the next however many weeks cleaning up this mess, saying exactly what I tell you and doing exactly as I say - or I'll tell the whole country that you take it up the ass like a bitch in heat." 

A chill runs through Patrick - a disgust at what he's done, a humiliation at Andy's words, an anger at his prejudice. He won't be manipulated like this. "No-one would believe you," Patrick says, mostly to reassure himself. It doesn't work. 

"Do you think I simply destroyed that fag's memory?" Andy asks. "I'm sure every one of those journalists would love to see it."

Patrick swallows thickly, clutching at the porcelain of the sink. "I'm not gay," he says. It's starting to become a catchphrase. 

"That's not what they'll think when they see you sucking on another man's balls," Andy snarls. "So what's it going to be?" 

-

"...I am sincerely sorry for my statements about the Chicago Division, and my incorrect assumptions about their actions. Both stemmed from an ignorance of the situation, and the fear I felt after the attempt on my life," Patrick finishes. He's talking to yet another room full of people. Andy stares from the wings. 

He doesn't take questions. His billion-dollar smile rots in his mouth. 

-

That evening, he breaks. 

The news still buzzes with his words, his face:  _ "I'm Sorry" Says Stump After Soldier Slander; "F***ing Trigger-Happy Wannabe Action Men": Stump Slams Chicago's Heroes. _ He used to be so certain about his beliefs - each opinion solid, each statement confident - now, his world spins with uncertainty. Pete still hasn't answered. 

Perhaps Pete has friends with whom he laughs about Patrick's media blunder - or perhaps they don't laugh, perhaps they seethe, scathe, threaten. Patrick has friends; his phone is full of them, they hang off his every word, they squabble over his company. He doesn't know them. He thinks about calling a few, having a party, ordering more booze than he can stomach and forgetting everything for a few, blissful hours - but he's not sure he can trust himself anymore. The last time he got drunk, he opened a can of worms bigger than the MANIACorp Tower. 

So he simply pours himself a whiskey and binges some show about marine animals. He tries to focus on the host - she's got a smart-sexy look about her, perhaps the kind of girl he'd have to take on a date before she'd let him screw her. He imagines fucking her until her glasses fall off her face, her body naked under her lab coat. His dick remains thoroughly disinterested. 

He ends up actually learning something, much to his annoyance; jellyfish in their conventional form are in what's called the medusa phase. Patrick thinks he can relate. 

When his phone buzzes, he stares at it, light obscuring the name. He waits a moment before he reaches for it - worst case scenario, it's Andy notifying him of some other colossal fuck up. Best case, it’s Pete. 

It's neither. Joe's nasal voice greets him, and Patrick relaxes. He's got leftover pizza - he's pretty sure he could get his hands on some weed, too. They could eat and smoke and forget. 

“I just - when is the interview? The Fox News one?" Joe asks in his tired, anxious tone. "I swear I was listening when Andy told me, I just -"

"Wednesday," Patrick says. He's dreading it already. "You don't have to be there. Just - I don't know, talk to Andy about it."

"Right," Joe says, sounding unconvinced. "Okay. Well, I'll see you - at some point, then. Bye."

"Wait," Patrick blurts at his phone. "Are you - busy, tonight?"

There's a short pause. "Uh - no. Why?"

"I - uh, wondered if you wanted to come over? Just, like, for some food? I know it's late, but - like, yeah," he stammers, not sure what he'll do if he gets rejected. Erase Joe's memory of the whole conversation, perhaps.

"Sure," Joe says, "you okay?"

Patrick doesn't know. "Yeah. Just - wondered."

"Cool. See you soon," Joe says, and then he hangs up. Patrick sips at the last of his whiskey and clings to the fact that soon, he won't be alone.

-

"Okay so - so then he was like,  _ super  _ high, and I was like, kind of buzzed but like these guys kept chasing us so instead of like, going inside a building or some shit, we fucking jumped in the lake like it was nothing," Joe laughs, gulping beer in between sentences. The mention of alcohol made everything less awkward. "So - so yeah. That was like - a year ago, or something. It was a wild night."

Patrick grins. Joe is easy to talk to - he'll babble but never interrupts, listening close to Patrick's stories about drunken college nights back in the days before he needed armed guards. Patrick's wildness is now carefully scheduled, controlled, protected. "Do you smoke often?" 

Joe giggles in a way that says absolutely  _ yes _ . "I dunno if I should be telling my boss that." It pains Patrick that Joe still seems slightly scared of him. "But - yeah, I guess. When the guys are over. I'm not at the point of smoking alone yet. You?" 

"Yeah," Patrick nods, "but - yeah, with friends. Don't tell the voters," he grins, and Joe mimes zipping his mouth shut. "Ever done anything harder?" 

Joe laughs a little - then stops when it becomes clear that it's a serious question. "I - uh, dunno. Took a pill once, no idea what it was. I'm not really into that stuff." 

"Wanna try some?" Patrick says all of a sudden, his desperate mind running away with him. "I could get really good stuff, too. We could just try, like - ecstasy, or something. It'll be fun." 

Joe's fingers shift around his beer. "Uh - dunno. Maybe - not?" 

"Oh, come on," Patrick says, rolling his eyes. "Don't be a downer. Let's just get messed up, y'know, let's just -" he fishes for his phone, thinks which of his fake friends might have ties to dealers. He wonders if he ever did drugs in his past life. He wonders if the drugs fucked him up, and that's why he's like this, he wonders if he sold those memories to shield himself from what he's done. His hands begin to shake as he taps at the glass. 

"Whoa, dude," Joe says somewhere near him, the sofa sagging with extra weight. "You alright?" Patrick keeps scrolling until Joe's hand stops him. "Dude. Mr. Stump. Just- stop for a second." 

Patrick looks up. Joe's watching him warily, concern written over his face and his hand still resting on Patrick's wrist. Patrick forces a laugh. "Nothing's wrong," he smiles, "I just - I was just - we - I don't know." His voice cracks on the last word. Traitor tears tighten his throat. 

"Do you wanna - uh, talk about it?" Joe asks softly. 

Patrick almost lies. It would be easy - he could say he's just tired, he could ask Joe to leave, he could run to his bedroom and sob where no-one can hear him. But when he blinks, he feels a stupid, weak tear ooze down his cheek. Before he knows it, he's crying into the heels of his hands whilst his PA stares, bewildered. 

"Should I - uh, do you need a tissue? Or, a drink?" Joe asks awkwardly. Patrick shakes his head, wiping at his eyes and taking big gulps of air. 

"I'm good, I swear," Patrick tries, but Joe's eyebrows rise in pitiful disbelief and his hand gives Patrick's shoulder a squeeze. 

"What is it, man? Pressures of the job?" 

Patrick sniffs, shakes his head. He decides that if he's going to say this, he has to say it now. "I - I was lying before," he says, unable to look Joe in the eye. "About the - the memory." 

Joe's hand stills. "It - it  _ was  _ you?" 

Patrick nods. When he steals a glance at Joe, the man's face is spread with shock. 

"You're - are you - y'know, like... do you -" 

"I guess so," Patrick shrugs. "But - I don't remember. It was me in the memory but I don't remember it." 

Joe's eyebrows rise impossibly higher. "So - so you think someone took it? Or - or maybe you sold it?" 

"I don't know," Patrick says. "I don't know what the fuck is going on." 

"Fuck," Joe breathes, running a hand through his bushy hair. "That's - insane. Is that why you - you've been a little - weird? Like, at the press conference and stuff?" 

"I guess so," Patrick sighs. "Oh my God, don't tell anyone, please," he adds, thinking of one person in particular. 

"Hurley will never know," Joe says, "and neither will anyone else. Look - okay. You think there might be more memories?" 

"Maybe. It kind of came across like we were - in a, like, relationship, y'know?" 

"Alright," Joe nods, frowning at his knees. "Okay. So - so I guess you have two options; you can, like, forget it all. Like, we could literally find an all-night surgery and get all of this out of your head. Or - or we start looking for more. I can do some snooping around, if you like, I could look into, like, records and shit, find out what's going on? If you want?" 

Ignorance sounds like bliss. Patrick could forget it all, go back to being a confident, grinning politician, fucking girls and girls alone. But it would be fake, an illusion balanced on the assumption that he won't stumble across another memory, another man. Truth seems hard to come by in the world of politics - Patrick's starving for it. "Alright," Patrick nods. "Yeah, let's - let's find out what's going on." 

Joe gives him a whiskey and a slap on the back, and everything begins to look a little brighter. 

He wakes the next morning to a missed call from Pete Wentz.    
  



	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens...

"You okay?" Patrick asks, stroking his hand through Pete's hair. Pete hums a sigh of contentment against Patrick's thigh, his head nestled in Patrick's soft lap. "What're you thinking about?" 

Pete feels himself shrug, nuzzling his face further into Patrick's pyjama pants. He smells nice - freshly showered and warm. A burst of affection flutters in Pete's chest at the scent; he feels so at home with Patrick, so blissed out. The TV buzzes in the background. Pete isn't listening. 

"You're comfy," he mumbles, a few slow blinks away from sleep. He feels Patrick laugh, his tummy wobbling under Pete's ear. 

"It's all those milkshakes," he says, "you're fattening me up." 

"Nah, they're low-fat. Low everything," Pete says, a faint dislike thrumming in his jaw. "Dunno why you like them." 

"'Cause you make 'em, honey," Patrick says, his fingers skirting Pete's temple. 

"I put the powder in the milk," Pete says, "that's it." 

"Well, you do a wonderful job," Patrick replies, and Pete can hear the smile in his voice. He turns his head slightly and presses a kiss to Patrick's thigh. The confidence to say the words hits him all at once - he watches the people on the screen hug to the sound of a cooing studio audience and lets the words fall out of his mouth.

"I love you," he says softly. Patrick's hand just keeps stroking over his hair. 

"I know," Patrick murmurs. Pete shifts to look up at him. 

"Did you just fucking Princess Leia me?" Pete says, incredulous, as Patrick begins to laugh. "What the fuck?!" 

"I didn't mean to!" Patrick protests as Pete sits up and digs a hand into his stomach, "I was just saying - I know you love me, we fucking live together pretty much, it'd be kind of weird if you didn't, y'know?" 

Pete scowls at him, folding his arms. "I was just trying to be romantic. Thanks for ruining it." 

Patrick makes a sympathetic noise and attempts to pull Pete closer. "If it helps, I love you too," he says to a wriggling Pete. Pete stills, sighs. 

"I know," he exhales, rather regretful of that fact. Patrick laughs once more, his eyes lighting and his sun-bright grin spreading over his face. Pete rolls his eyes, but leans in anyway, touching their mouths together. Patrick's hands rise to his jaw and Pete slides his own around Patrick's chest, their bodies melting closer. 

They kiss for several moments more, soft and lazy, and Pete feels a warmth in his chest that seems to be reserved for moments like this, for Patrick. When they pull away, Patrick's hand strokes over his face, his eyes alight with something euphoric that makes Pete's cheeks heat. He grins, resting his head on Patrick's chest and cuddling him tight. 

"I love you," he whispers into the fabric of Patrick's t-shirt.  

"I love you too," Patrick replies. 

-

Pete sits on his couch, alone, the TV blaring in the background. It's not quite enough to drown out his thoughts. 

His present has been filled only with his past in the days since the memory - he thinks about it constantly, the details of it all, the differences. He's managed to convince himself that Stump must have manipulated him into it - it was a trick to get whatever it was Pete had that Stump wanted. 

The missed calls have been steadily accumulating on his phone since the incident, a constant reminder of what he's done. He's spent so long believing that his memories were forcibly taken from him - now he's starting to believe that it was intentional, a bid to escape the hell that Stump put him through. Perhaps Stump abused him, terrorised him, controlled him. This idea is somehow more favourable than the alternatives. 

He's tried to look at the situation objectively. He's tried imagining a universe in which he's attracted to Stump, even tried studying Stump's grinning face for good qualities. He'll admit - the man's mouth is rather lovely, a full bottom lip, dimpled at the corners, and his eyes sparkle in a way that can't just be Photoshop. But it's not quite enough to drown out his hateful politics, his greedy companies and his sleazy habits. Pete can't imagine a life where he doesn't feel a surge of hatred when he sees the man's face. 

But the flashing of his phone wears him down. "Play messages," he sighs, leaning back into the couch and watching the glass rectangle light from the coffee table. 

" _ Message - one _ ," the machine says. Stump's voice floods the speakers. "Hey, Pete - it's, uh, it's Patrick. I hope you're, like, okay. Sorry about last night. I think we need to talk some more about this."

" _ Message - two _ . It's me again. Just wanted to - uh, check in, I guess. Call me when you get this, if you want." 

" _ Message - thre _ e. Pete, I know you don't wanna see me but - it's my life too, I wanna know what's going on even if you don't. Please, call me back."

" _ Message - four. _ Just call me, okay? I need to know what's going on." 

" _ Message - five _ . Call me. Please." 

" _ Message - six _ . Hey - I've decided to find out what's going on. My PA is gonna try to track down any others. If you want in, call me. If not - then I guess it's goodbye." 

Pete rubs a hand over his face as he considers his options. Stump laid it out pretty succinctly - remember, or forget. He's of half a mind to go out right now and get all this business with Stump taken right out of his skull. He’s terrified, to put it simply, terrified of what Stump might find, what Pete might be forced to remember. Pete may have been wiped for his own good - he may have been reset because reality drove him to madness, because he'd never find contentment again with all the things he's seen, the things he's done. 

But one thing is certain - he can't go on like this. The unknowing is eating away at him like a rat gnawing at a wire - sooner or later, he'll strike metal. In the weeks since the incident, he's wasted away. He hates feeling as if he's on the brink of another breakdown. 

And he's seen the news, everyone has. Badmouthing soldiers is one way to gain publicity, and Stump has certainly succeeded in that. Watching the news channels tear into him was a pleasurable experience - and yet, it pains him to admit that in this particular case, Stump was right. Pete would never say it aloud - no-one within spitting distance of a recording device would say it aloud - but the soldiers are a menace. Stump had some guts to question them in a room full of journalists - or perhaps he's just immeasurably stupid. 

Pete could forget. It would be so easy. But for the one, tiny chance that his past might reveal a different person, a happier person, it seems as if remembering is worth it. 

He picks up his phone and taps Stumph's name. He tries to plan what to say, how to phrase his acceptance, whether to risk pissing off the most powerful man in Chicago for the sake of his own pride. 

To his relief, the phone rings out. He doesn't leave a message. 

-

"It's Patrick," Stump says, when they finally manage to reach each other, as if Pete doesn't know full well who it is. "Thanks for calling back." 

"Shall we get this over with, then?" Pete snaps. He has no time for pleasantries - he intends to spend as little of his life talking to Stump as possible. "When should I expect the royal summons?" 

There's a short pause in which Pete hopes Patrick's ego has taken a fatal hit before he replies, "Whenever, I guess. Tonight?" 

Pete purses his lips, but it's not as if he's got any plans and he was the one that suggested getting this over with. "Yeah." 

"Come for dinner?" Stump asks, "no chef, I'll - I'll order takeout."

Somehow, the suggestion that Stump might actually want to be friends with him is more repulsive than most other parts of this situation. Pete almost snorts at him. “No, thank you,” he says. “You can pick me up at eight.” 

He hangs up. A buzz of adrenaline rushes through him as he realises he just rejected Patrick Stump. Again. At least the man appears to have mellowed slightly since the attempt on his life. Pete can't decide whether he wishes they'd succeeded. 

He hasn't mentioned any of this to Joanna. Perhaps he should, perhaps he owes it to her - she was the one, after all, who got him back on his feet after his whole life was surgically removed, she took him in and sorted him out, she should be the first to know. But he's not sure he can bear seeing the upset, the disappointment on her face just yet. He'll tell her soon. Tomorrow, perhaps. 

But tomorrow seems worlds away as he considers that his evening will be spent attempting to be civil around Patrick Stump. 

-

"Hey," Stump says. For once, he's actually opened his own front door. Pete wonders how often he has to get up for anyone. He's wearing a buttoned shirt and suit pants - Pete's simultaneously grateful and worried. "Thanks for coming." 

"Yeah," Pete replies, stepping over the threshold. "Let's make this quick." 

Stump nods, shuts the door behind Pete. There's something uncharacteristically forlorn about him - Pete almost -  _ almost  _ \- feels bad. Then he remembers how Stump hates anyone who isn't a straight white man, and all guilt rises from his conscience. "Good day at work?" Stump asks, and Pete winces at the small talk. 

"Fine," he says, following Stump towards the elevator. 

"Where d'you work, again?" 

Pete rolls his eyes. "I work at a surgery. You literally interviewed me about it." 

"Oh - yeah," Stump says, letting out an awkward laugh. "That seems like years ago, now." 

"You're telling me," Pete snorts. He feels as if he's been inhabiting a different body entirely since the incident. His nights of buying porn and eating reheated pasta are over - now, he just thinks, relentlessly. 

He begins to re-evaluate his opinion of small talk when they spend the elevator journey in complete silence, the atmosphere crushing Pete's skull. Stump's confident demeanour seems missing in action - he's a shifting mess of awkward smiles and fidgeting hands. Pete reminds himself not to feel any pity. 

"I saw the news," Pete says finally. "Sorry about that guy. Must've been scary." 

The step out into the lounge and Stump nods quickly. "Yeah. The bullet was like, a foot away from my face. Could've been pretty nasty." Pete tries to imagine what he might have felt if the headlines had declared  _ Patrick Stump Shot Dead _ . Joanna would have thrown a party. 

"I - agree with you. About the soldiers," Pete says quickly, before he loses his nerve. The way Stump's face brightens makes Pete wish he hadn't spoken. 

"Not many people have said that. But - I dunno, I stand by it," he says, his politician side creeping into his tone. 

"You apologised," Pete counters, "you literally said you were talking shit." 

Stump's smile drops. "Well - yeah, I guess. But I -" 

"You  _ should  _ stand by it. It's an important issue, have some backbone," Pete says, watching Stump squirm. It's rather amusing. 

"Maybe - maybe I will," he says. "Do you want a milkshake?" He makes his way over to the kitchen. 

"No, thank you," Pete says. Patrick just shrugs, retrieving a glass from the cupboard and heading over to the fridge. "So - your PA. Can I trust him?" 

Patrick makes an uncertain noise. "If I'm out of a job, so is he. It's in his interests to keep it under wraps. But - honestly, I just had to tell someone," he says. Pete feels a stab of pity for the man currently spooning chocolate powder into the bottom of a glass. His closest friend is his PA.

"I thought you needed ice cream to make milkshakes?" Pete asks, watching Patrick stir the milk furiously. "Or are you not quite rich enough for that." 

Patrick shrugs again, licking the spoon before tossing it into the sink. "Dunno, I just like these ones better. You sure you don't want one?"

"Really sure," Pete says as he watches Patrick take a gulp of the milkshake and end up with a light brown moustache.

"'Kay. Let's talk," he says, wiping his mouth and gesturing towards the lounge. Pete swears he gets a whiff of cologne as Patrick walks past. The residual worry in his stomach stirs.

"So - so," Patrick starts as he perches on the edge of the couch, his belly bulging over his belt. "I wanna find out what happened between us, and why we don't remember it. Do you want that too?"

It pains Pete to nod. Either way, he's risking his own sanity. "I gotta know what the fuck is going on."

"Me too," Patrick laughs bitterly, rubbing a hand across his brow. "But - uh, in that case, my PA's already found another one if - if you wanna see it?"

"Oh God," Pete groans. He's not sure he's ready for this tonight.

"It's not a sex one," Patrick insists, "it's just - I dunno, a normal one. We're just sitting on the couch. That's it, I swear." He produces a small square from his pocket and offers it to Pete. "It's another one of yours."

Pete sighs as he takes the memory, careful not to touch Stump's hand. He supposes he should get used to this - it's what he agreed to. He sits back on the couch and takes a deep breath, then presses the memory to his temple and waits for the room to dissolve.

-

When he wakes, Patrick's staring at him. For a split second, he feels something warm, something affectionate left over from the memory - then he remembers where he is, who he is, and the feeling disappears. "We were in love," is the first thing he manages to croak.

Stump just nods. Pete suddenly feels close to tears.

"I've never been in love before," he says. He can't quite put into words how much he hates that the first man he's uttered those words to is Patrick Stump. He drops his head to his hands. With every rotation of his mind, he regrets ever coming back here. 

"I think I've told girls I love them - so they'd fuck me," Stump says with a breathy laugh. He's a crude replication of the man in the memory. Pete glares at him. 

"You're an asshole," he says. Stump's smile fades. 

"I guess I was young," Stump tries, "I didn't know any better." 

"Right," Pete says, dripping with sarcasm. "Because manipulating someone into sex is morally ambiguous if you're under the age of twenty one." 

"I didn't - it wasn't - I don't know," he sighs, running a hand through his greased hair. "This feels different, though." 

At least they agree on something. What Pete had felt in that memory was no act - he'd been so comfortable around Patrick, so safe and wanted. It sickens him. 

"Pete," Stump says softly, fiddling absently with his cufflinks. "Do you think - we could ever go back to that?" 

"Back to - to - that? " Pete says, gesturing to the memory on the coffee table. "Are you fucking kidding me?" 

"Uh - no, I mean, like - if we loved each other once, then - maybe we could do it again?" 

It strikes Pete squarely in the chest. The memory, the suit, the nerves - Patrick Stump is coming onto him. This can't be happening. "Are you fucking shitting me right now?! You're fucking making a pass at me?" 

"No! No," Stump backtracks, "well. I mean, I'm just thinking, if there's a  _ possibility  _ of it working out, then, then -" 

"Oh my God, fuck off," Pete says, looking away from the man and shaking his head. "You're fucking delusional." 

"I could - I could be like him, you know," Stump tries, "I'm not all - this." He gestures to the room. 

"Is there any connection between your mouth and your brain?" Pete asks, "Like - do you actually process what you're saying or do you just shit out sentences as and when you want attention?" 

Patrick stops short, his mouth resembling that of a goldfish. "I - I just think that - that night we met, there was a - connection, don't you think? We liked each other!"

"I was drunk," Pete says flatly. "I would've gone home with anyone."

"But you  _ didn't  _ \- you went home with me. And I don't think it's a coincidence that the first man I remember kissing is you. I'd never, ever had thoughts like that before that night. You've gotta admit - that's fuckin' odd." 

Pete purses his lips. "Fine. Maybe - fuckin  _ destiny  _ brought us together. But, tell me, Patrick, why do you think neither of us remember any of this?" 

Stump shrugs. "Dunno. Maybe it was sabotage." 

"Patrick - look at yourself. Look what you've turned into. Is it any fucking surprise that we broke up so fucking badly that we wanted to erase all memory of each other? In fact -" Pete says as the realisation creeps through him, "I bet you fucking took my life away. I bet I fucking pissed you off and you fucking wiped me." 

"What?" Patrick says, "What do you mean, took your life away?" 

Pete scowls at the spotless floor, anger surging through him. "I don't remember anything," he says simply. "Beyond a couple of years ago, I don't remember anything at all. I don't have a childhood, an adolescence, anything." 

Patrick stares at him, his hands tying themselves in knots. "That's - awful." Condolence clearly doesn't come naturally to him. "So you just - turned up in the world?" 

"Yeah," Pete nods, remembering how it felt to be completely alone, an animal lost in the dark. "I had an apartment and a car. That was it, basically. I didn't know anyone. Joanna lived next door, at the time. She helped me figure out what the fuck was going on." He doesn't mention the notebook. 

"But, like," Stump says quietly, shifting in his seat. "They only wipe - y'know, criminals, right? Terrorists and murders?" 

Pete bites his lip until he tastes blood. He's thought about that possibility. It makes him feel queasy. "I know," he says. 

"I'm sorry," Patrick says, and he almost sounds like he means it. "I know I'm an asshole but - I don't think I'd forcibly removed your memories over a bad breakup." 

Pete scoffs. "So - what if I cheated on you? What if I disapproved of your rise into politics - which I  _ do  _ \- what if I did something to make you angry? Are you absolutely certain that you wouldn't overreact?" 

Patrick chews on his lip for a few seconds. "I - don't know," he sighs. "But that guy in the memory - he wouldn't." 

"You don't know that. We've got two, tiny pieces of this puzzle. What if that was a one off? What if you beat me, or - or - manipulated me? That's probably why I was wiped - to give me half a chance at sanity after what you did," Pete spits, the scenario realising itself in his head. 

At this, Patrick glares. "You really think I'm garbage, don't you?" 

"Yeah," Pete shrugs, "that's about right." 

"But out of the two of us, who's more likely to have killed someone?" Patrick says acidly. Pete's fingernails dig into his palms. 

"So - that man in the crowd just dropped dead of his own accord, right?" Pete retorts. "There's people out there right now, dying because of you. So yeah, I do think you're garbage." 

"That's not my fucking fault, that's -" 

"Oh, just fuck you," Pete says finally, leaning forward and resting his head in his hands. "This is exactly why I didn't want to know." 

"Well - you loved me whether you like it or not," Patrick snaps. "And for the record - I think you're wrong about me." 

Pete sincerely doubts that. The atmosphere drains to a stagnant cold that settles in Pete's bones. The whole house seems to ache with unnaturalness, the lounge too clean, the walls too blank. Even Patrick's outfit seems forced, his mannerisms overly careful. He watches Patrick gulp down the last of his milkshake. Perhaps he's not entirely different from the man in the memory. 

"Look - Patrick," Pete finally sighs. "Just - for one second - stop acting. Is this all some ruse to get me to fuck you again?" 

"No," Patrick says indignantly, and Pete winces at his haste. Then, he meets Pete's eyes. "I do - like you. And, like - that's kind of rare for me, I don't know. I - don't usually care if people like me, but I care that you don't. But it's not a prank. This is all really, properly happening and I'm fucking terrified, to be honest."

For a split second, Patrick Stump gains Pete's respect. Pete nods his satisfaction and Patrick gives him a sad smile. "Thanks. Okay." For once, Pete feels like he has some kind of authority over the situation. 

"So - do you wanna fuck?" Patrick says, as if it's a perfectly reasonable request. Pete's fingers fly to the bridge of his nose - he'll have worn a mark into his own face by now. 

"Oh God," he laughs, disbelieving, "you've really no idea how to talk to people, do you?" 

Patrick's face reddens minutely. "I just thought -" 

"Look - I'm gonna leave before you embarrass yourself even more," Pete says, getting to his feet. "Consider it a small mercy." 

"I'll give you the locations of the other potential memories," Patrick says, sheepish but relatively unscathed. He wonders if Patrick's ever been scathed in his life. "I can text them to you, if you like?" 

"No," Pete says, "too traceable. Write them down." 

Pete leaves with a scrap of paper tucked safely in his pocket, grateful that Patrick doesn’t try to give him a kiss goodbye. They settle on a simple handshake, and Pete climbs into the car feeling considerably better than he did when he got out of it. His hatred for Stump still burns bright in his chest, but with it, something else sizzles, a brewing curiosity as to what's going through his head. Joanna would chide him for it. 

As they drive, Pete reaches into his pocket and stares at the set of names and addresses on the sheet of paper. He'll fire off a message to each of them in the morning. For now, he just looks at the letters, the rounded curves and the spindly tails. Something distant and almost forgotten stirs inside him. 

He pulls out his notebook - a fat little tome that he's very nearly finished - and flips to the front. The first pages contains the first words he ever read, the first piece of advice he remembers, anonymous yet branded into his mind from the moment he began this new life. He's never shown them to anyone. 

_ Write everything down _ , it says. It doesn't specify what it meant by  _ everything _ , so Pete took it entirely literally. He's lived by that message since his mind was reborn. 

The world outside seems to slow as he looks between his notebook and the scrap of paper. They share the rounded curves, the spindly tails. It is, inescapably, Patrick Stump's hand. The threads of Pete’s sanity begin to unravel. 

  
  



	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back my friends! 
> 
> This should be an interesting one - please tell me your thoughts and theories in the comments, I'd love to hear them! 
> 
> (There might not be a chapter next week as I'm fearfully behind on my BBB (yes, Snitches, you were right blah blah) so if you don't see an update, don't panic - I'll be jumping right back on this big fat silly horse in two weeks' time) 
> 
> Enjoy!

"Aren't you going to give your mum a hug?"   
  
Patrick scowls, scuffs his spotless white Converse against the floorboards and shakes his head. "It was  _ easy _ , mum," he says, because it was. He's not sure what all the fuss over college was about - he knew he was going to get in. He wanted to - and he always gets what he wants.   
  
His mum settles for a pat on the back, her smile doting, her ridiculous bracelets tinkling on her wrist. His dad just nods at him from across the kitchen - and Patrick knows what that means. "Did you get me a car?" he asks, and his dad grins. Patrick scampers through the house towards the garage. This is why he loves his parents - he reckons it'll be sporty, perhaps bright orange, maybe a racing stripe or two across the centre.   
  
But when he bursts through the garage door, he sees what must be a gift for his grandmother. It's navy blue, small, with drab grey insides and normal, boring hubcaps. There must have been some kind of mistake.   
  
"What do you think, Rick?" his dad asks, leaning against the garage doorway. "Brand new - the safest self-driving model out there, top speed of a hundred and forty miles-per-hour, top of the range stereo system. You'll be able to take your friends on road-trips!"   
  
Patrick frowns, dragging his finger over the paint. "I don't like it," he shrugs. "I thought you were gonna get me something cool?"   
  
"This  _ is  _ cool, Rick," his dad tries, "I know it's not very flashy, but it's safe and it'll last you a long time."   
  
"It's horrible, dad," he says. He looks at his mum, putting on his best sulking face. "I thought you were proud of me?"   
  
His mum casts a look towards Mr. Stump, who sighs deeply. "Alright. If you really don't like it, I'll take you to pick another one."   
  
Patrick nods, walking away from their shitty choice of car. "Can I also have a motorbike? I did get into Harvard."   
  
"Of course you can," his dad says. Patrick smiles.   
  
-   
  
"It's a  _ stupid _ ,  _ sucky  _ bike and I don't  _ want  _ it anymore!" Patrick screams at his father as he limps into the lounge, propped up by his mother. His favourite t-shirt is in shreds and his whole body aches, blood and tears oozing down his face. His mum lowers him onto the couch and hurries away, leaving him moaning with pain and stinging all over.   
  
He'd only tried to drive it once - lessons are for pussies, and so are leathers - and within five seconds, he'd toppled to the floor, his body scraping along the concrete. Manual driving is  ridiculous, he decides - he'll never put unnecessary effort into anything ever again. He lets out a whine, hoping it'll make his mother return faster.   
  
The disinfectant hurts - he writhes on the couch and curses until she's done, his whole body on fire. His lower half is mostly unscathed - his chest, however, is ruined, his shoulder stripped of skin and welling with blood. He cries out with each tug of fibre as his shirt is pulled away.   
  
"I need a doctor," he moans, "it hurts too much."   
  
His mother looks towards his hovering father. He reaches to ruffle Patrick's hair. "Come on, Rick - you're a man. You'll be fine."   
  
"I think I'm gonna die," Patrick whines, squeezing his eyes shut. His arm is hot with pain - he wonders if he's broken it. In fact, he probably has. "Mum,  _ please _ ."   
  
They drive him to the hospital. His parents miss their flight.   
  
-   
  
Patrick stares at his phone. The word  _ mum  _ stares back. He wonders if she'll pick up this time - if he even wants her to. He takes a breath, settling himself further into his armchair. "Call mum," he says, anxiety rushing to the tips of his fingers.   
  
It rings out. Patrick doesn't leave a message.   
  
He's not sure when he saw them last - he remembers a dinner party, a Christmas, perhaps his birthday. He can't think whether they're nice people or not - he can't say he thinks of them as people at all. They were vessels for his success, and enablers for his failings. He doesn't miss them. He's not sure he'd recognise them in a crowd.   
  
The motorbike incident was the first and only of its kind - Patrick remembers the pain, the twinge in his shoulder for weeks afterwards. Pulling his t-shirt to one side, he runs his hand over his chest, feeling for the ridges of a scar. It's barely visible - just a small indent, ghost white against his already pale skin, his shoulder twinging slightly when he moves it just so. He remembers the doctors telling him that he'd damaged the bones, perhaps permanently - they were right.   
  
As he thinks back over his life, he tries to slot Pete in - maybe they were college friends, maybe they met in a coffee shop, maybe they talked over the internet. But all Patrick's college friends were dickhead business students like him. Patrick never went to coffee shops, Patrick was never lonely enough to seek company online. None of it quite adds up, and it scares him.   
  
Joe hasn't found any more memories. They've all been fakes, from stores that insist it's him and profit from the fact that they have no way of checking. It's all made more difficult by the fact that they're having to be so discreet - firstly, because it would ruin him if it reached a journalist, and secondly, because his fate would be far worse if Andy got wind of it.   
  
Andy must have noticed something. Patrick has always been an asshole, but never a reticent one; it must be obvious that he's avoiding Hurley. Patrick's putting it down to the fact that the man blackmailed him into a stance he doesn't believe in, but that won't stand for long. Patrick's never lied so profusely to anyone before.   
  
Pete hasn't called. Patrick supposes that means that the addresses didn't check out. It's perhaps for the best that Pete doesn't frequent Patrick's home - both for security reasons and for developing crush reasons. Patrick's tried his utmost to fight it, to push Pete from his mind like he's pushed every other person he's got close to - it hasn't worked. He can't stop picturing Pete's dark eyes, his long fingers, his slender frame.   
  
Patrick's never been rejected before - but somehow, it only magnified his admiration of Pete. He wants Pete - and he always gets what he wants.   
  
-   
  
"Could you pass me my beer," Patrick grunts to the girl sitting next to him on the floor of his bedroom. He barely takes his eyes off the screen in front of him - he's so close to winning this round, much to his mates' repeated humiliation.   
  
She does so without a word. She's been texting for the majority of their time together; his first instinct is to take the phone away from her; the last thing he needs is for Kirsty to find out about this. That's the problem with girls - they  _ talk _ .   
  
"I should go," she says after a few moments, and Patrick only registers her words after spraying bullets over the sprawling virtual landscape.   
  
"Hey - no, don't," he says absently, throwing a final grenade in Alex's direction. "Just - let me -" He wins. "You all suck at this," he laughs into the headset. "Do the next one without me, I'm about to get some."   
  
He looks towards Faye, throwing the headset to one side and putting on his sweetest smile. "One more fuck before you leave?"   
  
She eyes the door. "I dunno, Patrick, I should get going…"   
  
"Could you at least suck me off?" he asks, reaching for her slim waist and kissing at her neck. "You know you want to."   
  
"We can't keep doing this," she says, and she's absolutely wrong.   
  
"Yes, we can," he mumbles into her collarbone. She lifts his head away and looks at him.   
  
"So will you break up with Kirsty?"   
  
Patrick frowns. "Kirsty's my girlfriend," he says. Everyone knows that.   
  
"You can't have both of us," she says. Patrick thoroughly disagrees.   
  
"I've  _ got  _ both of you. Kirsty won't find out." She didn't find out about Lauren. "Come on, babe, we're good together."   
  
She lets him kiss her, his tongue pushing into her mouth and his hands groping at her chest. They're nice tits, petite, they fit in his hands easily. She tastes of too much lip gloss.   
  
Most of it ends up smeared on his cock as he pumps it in and out of her mouth, standing over her and snapping his hips forward. She's always an easy fuck because she's so insecure - it's the shy ones who are the most grateful to be noticed. She sucks him deep and fast, occasionally drawing back to lick at the head, her eyes watering and her mascara smudging.   
  
Part of him wants to come on her face, to watch her squeal and complain about her makeup - part of him wants to shove himself down her throat and pretend she let him between her legs instead. He settles for the latter, shoving her head down until his cock nudges the back of her throat. He comes a few seconds later, breathing hard and savouring the tightness of her mouth. He keeps her there until he starts to soften, then pulls out and tucks himself back into his boxers.   
  
"Same time tomorrow?" he grins as she wipes at her mouth and stands up.   
  
She smiles, nods. She looks like she's just being polite - Patrick doesn't care either way as long as she continues to put out. "Bye, Patrick," she says as she opens the door to his dorm. Air rushes in - air that doesn't smell like stale sweat and wank. He wrinkles his nose.   
  
He doesn't love her. He barely even likes her. He doesn't suppose he'll ever love anyone.   
  
-   
  
Pete hardly leaves his mind. He used to avoid phone calls like the plague - now he rushes to his phone as soon as he feels it buzzing in his pocket. It's a vulnerability he's not used to - one person has the power to determine his happiness or unhappiness. He's not entirely sure how he feels about it yet. It's oddly exciting.   
  
Yet the lies are getting the better of him. He sits in front of Andy, secrets balanced on the tip of his tongue. A wrong move, and this could all come crashing down. He shifts in his seat.   
  
"We need to address your stage presence, Mr. Stump," Hurley says, bringing up a video on the table in front of him. It shows Patrick's most recent appearance - his voice unsure and his stance uncomfortable. "What do you make of this? An off day?"   
  
"Dunno," Patrick shrugs. "Maybe it was something I ate."   
  
"Indeed," Andy says, pursing his thin lips and zooming in on Patrick's face. "You seem distracted. Why is that, Mr. Stump? Something on your mind?"   
  
Patrick meets his eyes. He wonders if Andy already knows. He wonders what might happen to Pete- what might have already happened to Pete - if that's the case. But Patrick's in the business of lying. "No," he says simply, "just - in a slump, I guess."   
  
Andy makes an uncertain noise. "Heard any more from your faggot friend?"   
  
Patrick restrains a wince. That word has been banded around by Hurley - and himself - far too often, and he's come to rather despise it. He folds his arms over the desk and shakes his head. "No. And don't call him that."   
  
"What do you care," Andy says. It's a test, Patrick can see it in the man's sour eyes.   
  
"I don't. But slurs are to journalists what flames are to moths. Don't say it again."   
  
Andy's face flashes with something close to fury, but he settles almost immediately and his face becomes a mask once again. "Don't forget our little deal," he says acidly.   
  
"I won't," Patrick says. He doesn't suppose he'll ever forget the moment that Hurley shifted from nuisance to threat. He can safely say that the man no longer has his best interests at heart.

 

"So - what are you going to do about this," Hurley asks, gesturing to the screen in front of him. 

"I guess I'll step it up," Patrick says. 

"Yes, you will," Andy replies. "Now - you've received a lot of support for your stance on the agricultural sector -" 

"What do you know about my childhood, Hurley?" Patrick asks suddenly. He's not sure he'll ever have the nerve to ask again. 

Andy's gaze snaps to his own. "I know everything that's public knowledge. You grew up in the Gold Coast, you went to Walter Payton prep, and then to Harvard Business School." 

Patrick nods along - he remembers this, he knows he does. Perhaps he simply wants it to be fake. It might somehow excuse what he's become. "Okay," he says absently. "Just - wondered." 

The cold blue-grey of Andy's eyes bores into him for a few moments more, and for a second, Patrick thinks he knows, he knows everything, and he's going to make Patrick pay - but then he looks away, back to the screen, and Patrick breathes out for the first time in rather too long. 

He doesn't question Andy any longer. 

-

"The problem - the real problem with this country, is people like me." The room laughs a little - he flashes his brightest smile at them. "No - I'm serious. Rich guys who think their work is done. They've got the penthouse, the beautiful wife, they're set, right? Politics is a weekend hobby, they can spout rubbish and people lap it up - it's easy money." 

The autocue flashes at him. He ignores it. 

"The thing is - we know it doesn't work like that. Look at twenty-sixteen - put an idiot in charge, and you get idiotic politics. These people aren't suited to government, they're suited to private limousines and spa weekends. And I'm that type of guy, right? I'm the one percent, I guess. But! What if, I wanted to make genuine change? What if I really, truly wanted to use my power for something good? I care about this country, and I care about its people." 

A little cliché, but he means every word - for once, his smile isn't entirely fake. For once, he feels as if he deserves their applause. 

Andy can't berate him - he said nothing wrong. Except, he didn't use a word of Andy's drafted sentences, nor his speechwriter's neatly-typed documents. He lends Hurley a broad grin as he walks off-stage. He won't be controlled. 

-

Joe arrives at around nine o'clock that night, as they'd agreed. Patrick's life has split in two - his smiling stage-presence, his interview voice, his suit and tie and freshly polished shoes - and secret-bearer, hissing into secure phone lines and pining after things he can't have. He's not sure which he hates most. 

"Anything?" Patrick asks as Joe steps into the kitchen. 

Joe nods. "Yeah. Couple I'm not sure about - the places were a bit shifty - but, like, one that I think is solid." He takes an envelope from his pocket and slides it across the island towards Patrick. 

"No-one followed you?" 

"Not that I know of. And I was checking. I - uh, I contacted Pete, for an update on the addresses. I don't think he's checked any of them out, yet," Joe says. His voice is hushed, even though there's no-one there but them. 

At that, Patrick looks up. "You spoke to Pete?" 

Joe nods. "Is - is that a problem?" 

"No, not really, it's just - why didn't he tell me?" Patrick asks, more than a little put out. 

"Dunno, man," Joe shrugs. "But he's not been much use so far - he probably hasn't got a lot to say." 

Patrick ignores the sinking feeling in his chest and shakes the contents of the envelope out onto the marble. There's three in total, two in a plastic pouch and one loose. He stares at them, wondering which lost pieces of his life they might hold. This bit is always excruciating - he's just waiting for the time when he'll watch the last one, when it's clear that their relationship is failing. Any one of those little squares could shatter the illusion of past happiness he's built for himself. 

"It's mostly sex," Joe says, a bashful look in his eyes. "I'm sorry, it's just - they're the most readily available ones." 

"It's fine," Patrick says, even though it's not, not really, not at all fine to be watching his past self fuck someone else's past self. He might as well be looking through keyholes. 

Joe says his goodbyes and wishes Patrick luck. Patrick's left listening to his own breathing. 

The first two are duds. One of them is some strange role-play - one of the men dressed in a suit and tie, the other whispering political taglines in his ear. Patrick wills himself out of that one as quickly as he entered. The next is simply a look-alike, a chubby blond man with sideburns and slicked-back hair. He's rather repulsive, his flesh rippling as he jerks himself off - Patrick wonders if that's what Pete sees, if he likes it or simply tolerates it. 

The third is the surety. Patrick settles himself in the lounge before he watches it, pours himself a whiskey for afterwards, he always needs it. He holds it in his palm, wishes at it with all his might, then presses it to his temple. 

-

"You  _ know  _ I hate flowers," he hears Pete say. It's genuine - he can see himself, walking alongside him, their arms linked. He's watching through Pete's eyes, moving with Pete's body. It's always a strange sensation - he can see his own face as others see it, watch the way his belly wobbles and his eyes light.

It's autumn - they're both wearing coats, huddled together to escape the bite of the cold. "No-one hates flowers," Patrick - the other Patrick - says with a roll of his eyes. 

"They're just - what's the point of them?" Pete's voice says, his free hand gesticulating wildly. Patrick thinks he can feel mittens over Pete's fingers - it's quite adorable. 

"They're pretty," Patrick emphasises, "and they're roses, for God's sake, what more do you want from me?" 

“I don’t  _ want anything more,  _ I’m just - okay, forget it,” Pete sighs. “Thanks for the flowers.” 

“You’re very welcome,” Patrick beams, and Pete feels a well of begrudging affection in his chest.  

“But don’t spend any more money on me,” he says, looking down the cute-yet-crumbling street and watching the people hurry on by. 

“Should I cancel the solid gold statue of you I had made?” Patrick says, and Pete pushes an elbow into his ribs. “But it’s so flattering!” 

“I didn’t get you anything,” Pete says,”looks like you love me more than I love you.” 

“I can live with that,” Patrick shrugs, skipping to keep up with Pete. “Every day of your company is a gift, honey.” 

“Gross,” Pete replies. Patrick laughs - it's a nice sound. He should do it more often. "Should we pick something up for dinner?" Pete asks, pointing towards the superstore across the street.  

"Already done," Patrick smiles, an irritably smug look on his face. 

"What are you planning," Pete asks, narrowing his eyes. "You can cook, like, five meals, and they're all pasta." 

"Hey!" Patrick barks, "You love my pasta!  _ Especially  _ my macaroni."

"Is that the surprise," Pete says dully, "you're making macaroni." 

Patrick goes very quiet. "...No," he says, his cheeks flushing pink, "I - I dunno, I'm making something else." 

Pete just laughs, pecking Patrick on the cheek and then digging a gloved hand into his side until he giggles. "I do love your pasta. And thank you for making macaroni." 

"Haven't made it yet," Patrick says haughtily, "might not want to, anymore."

"Oh, quit being grumpy," Pete snaps, "you'll be hungry later - after what I've got planned..." 

Patrick grins at that, wide and glittering. "Let's walk faster," he says, picking up his pace as they turn the corner onto their street. The buildings are modest - tightly packed two-bedroom apartments stacked on top of one another - but Pete feels no disdain when he looks for their particular flat. They've done what they can with it - mostly-alive flowers on the windowsills, the stucco as clean as it'll they'll ever get it. 

The elevator is shaky but reliable, their stairwell juddering into view. It smells faintly of urine and smoke, but it barely crosses Pete's mind to complain. Patrick fumbles for his phone and presses it to the door, which opens after the lock flashes green. 

Inside, it's a different world. The sofas are crowded yet cosy, the kitchen stuffed into a corner but brightened by the magnets on the fridge and a vase of roses on the counter. There's not much time to look, though, because he's already being pulled into a kiss, Patrick's nose pressing cold against his cheek. 

"You wanna do this now?" Pete laughs, and Patrick nods urgently. 

"It'll warm us up," he says, and Pete can't deny that logic; he scoops the woollen hat off Patrick's head and kisses him hard. The Patrick in Pete's head finds kissing himself - disconcerting, to say the least. Not entirely unpleasant, though - he's a very good kisser. Pete's fingers undo both their coats and they let them fall to the floor, their lips still firmly connected. 

Hands slide around Pete's waist, pulling him close and stroking over his hips. There's excitement buzzing in his brain - they've been busy, it's been a little while since they've had the time - and he shoves Patrick towards the bedroom, giving his plush ass a squeeze as he turns around. 

The attraction is dizzying. He can hardly undo his belt fast enough, his frozen hands shaking as his eyes focus on Patrick pulling his sweater over his head. He's on Patrick as soon as he sits down, pushing him to the sheets and sealing their mouths together in a haze of lust. 

He fumbles with the buttons of Patrick's shirt, Patrick's arms keeping his lips firmly in place until he pulls away and places kisses across Patrick's chest. There's no motorcycle scar to be seen. 

Pete shoves his jeans down and grinds his hips against Patrick's, who cries out and thrusts wantonly. He's hard, achingly so, and he can feel that Patrick's right there with him as he wrestles Patrick's jeans down to his knees and drags Patrick's boxers down with his teeth. 

He sucks Patrick down with no fanfare, burying his nose in the copper blond hairs at the base of Patrick's cock. He smells of sweat and sex, and it only serves to heighten Pete's arousal. Patrick lets out a moan as Pete begins to bob his head, tasting the bitterness of pre-come on his tongue, his lips dragging against the sensitive underside. 

"Fuck me," he growls as he pulls off, his nails digging into Patrick's thighs and his cock aching. "Right now." 

Patrick laughs, lifting his hand to his forehead in a mock salute. "Yes, sir." 

Grinning wolfishly, Pete crawls back up to Patrick's lips and lets him roll them over, one hand attempting to search the bedside cabinet for lube whilst keeping his tongue down Patrick's throat. Patrick eventually takes over for him, retrieving the bottle and flicking the cap open. Patrick shoves his jeans off fully and does the same to Pete's, disconnecting their lips only to squeeze lube into the palm of his hand. 

Pete simply lays back and  _ feels  _ as Patrick does what he knows Pete loves; his cock in Patrick's mouth and his ass wrapped around Patrick's fingers. He spends a few minutes stretching Pete open, bobbing his head in time with the flex of his fingertips and sending waves of pleasure rippling through Pete. 

"You ready for me, honey?" Patrick asks, his voice husky and his eyes burning with lust. Pete's never been more certain of anything in his life. 

"God, yes," he breathes, spreading his knees wide in invitation. Patrick grins, sitting back on his haunches, his cock bobbing between his legs, thick and leaking. He grasps himself gently, sliding his hand up his length and swiping his thumb over the head. Pete debates whether or not to kick him in the gut. "Come  _ on _ ." 

Patrick smiles, fondling himself between Pete's legs as if he isn't driving Pete insane. "Wait- what do you want?" he asks. 

"I fucking hate you," Pete groans, "a whole  _ fucking  _ year, what the hell am I - oh  _ God _ ," he yelps as Patrick suddenly slams into him, burying himself to the hilt and holding himself there for a few excruciating seconds before he starts to move. 

Patrick keeps a syncopated rhythm, sliding a hand up Pete's tattooed chest and pinching a pebbled nipple between his fingers. Pete burns with pleasure, Patrick's cock brushing his prostate on every thrust once he hitches Pete's legs over his thighs and snaps his hips forward. 

Pete comes without warning, spurting over his own chest as his mind fizzes through the aftershocks. Patrick's thrusts slow, but Pete waves a boneless hand at him. "Keep going," he says, barely in the room as he floats on his high, and Patrick nods, crawling up the bed to kiss Pete deeply, his cock moving slow and deep inside him. 

His lips fall slack against Pete's as he starts to come, their bodies pressed close even as Patrick begins to soften. "Love you," Patrick mumbles against Pete's skin. He reaches for Pete's hand and laces their fingers together. Patrick - present Patrick - can only stare as the room begins to crumble away and his lounge swims back into view. 

-

There's so much to crowd his brain. But the only thing he can think about, the only thing he can see as clear as day in his mind's eye is the way their fingers were intertwined, two golden bands gleaming in the autumn light. 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! It's been a while, right? It feels like it's been a while. Thank you all for being so patient with me. 
> 
> So, okay - here's what's gonna happen with updates from now on. Basically, I've got two fics that I'm trying to update weekly and it's just not working because I'm also going hell for leather on BBB, and I don't want to have to rush anything, so I'm gonna alternate between this and my pirate one. If you haven't checked out the pirate one out, I'd love it if you did - it's a load of high seas romping and it's great fun. Also Patrick's in uniform. Just saying. 
> 
> So yeah, this will be updated every other Monday from now on, or at least until the end of November - thank you to everyone who's sticking with it, we're nearing the end, now - tell me your ending theories in the comments, I love them! 
> 
> See you in two weeks, and enjoy!

"That's it - just lie back," Pete says, pushing the boy down in the chair and reaching for the numbing gel on his utility cart. He squeezes a blob onto his fingers and begins rubbing it to the boy's temple, the chemical cold through the skin of his gloves. "This won't mean you won't feel anything," he says, "it just won't hurt."

He's nervous - Pete can feel his jaw tense up, his eyebrows twitch into a frown. Pete would like to say that he remembers the feeling.

"I can still bring your mum in here, if you want," Pete says gently, "no-one's gonna know."

The boy - Samuel - looks towards the door, then to Pete. He thinks for a moment, then gives a tiny nod. Robert, the irritating intern they took on, jumps up to fetch her. Pete has to admit, there are certain merits to having an assistant.

The surgery goes without a hitch - the old, messy methods of threading wires across the temporal lobe abandoned in exchange for a neat, clean injection. The boy cries - most of them do, it hurts like a motherfucker even with the gel - and his mother tells him that the worst part is over with. Pete smiles and agrees.

-

The notebook burns in his pocket.

He can't stop thinking about it; even as he cuts into the minds of teenagers, he can't tear his own from the handwriting. He checks it several times a day, just to remind himself that it's not his imagination - the letters still match.

It could be coincidence. It could be that many people have the same way of writing, that he's reading too much into the way the tail of the y sweeps in a curve, the way the t loops and the bar almost misses the stem.

Deep down, he knows it's Patrick's - their lives are too tightly intertwined to lead him to any other conclusion. The three words he's lived by in the years since he was reborn were written by the man flashing across his mind when his shift finishes, the man popping up on his phone screen every time he goes to open a browser.

But it's getting more and more difficult to keep the flame of hatred burning in his chest. Joanna spits sparks about Stump every day without fail, but Pete no longer joins in so eagerly, instead nodding along, humming noises of agreement. Stump isn't the man in the memories, but he's not the man in the advertisements either.

Despite everything, Pete likes him. He's a mess - an arrogant, ignorant mess - but the former is only skin-deep and the latter is curable and the combination of the two is oddly captivating. He wants to assume the worst, that Patrick is culpable, that he's malicious, but with each chattering voicemail Pete's beginning to learn that he's all bark and no bite. Pete just wishes he would stop barking.

The air carries a gnawing chill to it as Pete steps out of the office, the sun sunk below the crowded buildings. Home is as empty as the red sky.

-

He's watching some strange reality show about pod renovation when he hears the knock at the door.

No-one visits him. All his friends are Joanna's. He didn't order any food. He's made it this far without the police ramming their way into his life - he wonders if his time is up. He rather wishes he'd worn smarter clothes.

The knock sounds again, insistent and fast, and Pete drags himself from the couch, brushing crumbs from his t-shirt and pulling down his shorts where they've ridden up. He'll go quietly, he decides - he can't fight and he'd rather avoid a black eye. They knock once more. Pete hurries to the door before they break it down.

"Patrick?" he blurts as he opens the door to see the future president huddled in a raincoat and a forlorn expression. "You - you can't be here."

"I'm a sight for sore eyes, I know," Patrick says, a weak smile touching his lips. Pete huffs and grabs Patrick by the shoulder, pulling him inside.

"No - you can't _be_ here," Pete hisses, "what if someone recognises you?"

"I'll tell them I'm here to see my gay ex-lover with whom I had loving and athletic sex," Patrick drawls, ignoring Pete's slap to his shoulder.

"Make yourself at home, why don't you,"" Pete says dryly as Patrick shrugs his raincoat off and leans down to remove his shoes. "How the fuck do you know where I Iive?"

Patrick shrugs. "I did some digging."

Pete rolls his eyes, padding back across the lounge and spreading his arms out briefly. "Welcome, I guess," he sighs, looking around and wondering if he cares that Patrick knows he lives like this. There's underwear on the kitchen table and dirty dishes littering most available surfaces. He swears he sees Patrick wrinkle his nose.

"Whoa. It's a dump," he says simply, picking his way across the floor. "You're a fucking slob, man."

"Yeah, well," Pete bristles, "some of us don't have staff."

"Can I sit on the couch, or will I get an infection?" Patrick asks, prodding gingerly at the cracked faux leather.

"Fuck off," Pete says. "What are you even doing here, anyway?"

Patrick sighs, sinking down on the sofa and leaning back, his belly peeking from under the hem of his shirt as he stretches. "Listen, man," he says heavily. "I - we gotta talk about something. Well - I gotta tell you something."

Pete sits at the opposite end, careful not to let their knees touch, "okay. Actually, I've gotta tell you something, too."

"Oh?" Patrick says, his eyebrows rising. "Is it about our, um. Situation?"

Pete nods. He can barely remember a time when things weren't about their situation. "It's - pretty big."

"So is mine," Patrick replies, like they're comparing cocks, "like - it's just getting more insane."

"Yeah," Pete says with a bitter laugh that he hopes conceals the cold dread in his gut. "So - you wanna go first?"

Patrick shakes his head. "You go."

"Uh - alright." Pete stands, wades through the wreckage until he spots his jacket. He fishes around in the pockets until he finds the scrappy notebook, its spine split and its pages uneven, spilling from its mouth. He can't quite believe he's about to show this to Patrick Stump.

"So - this is my notebook," he says slowly, cradling it close to his chest. He decides he doesn't want to let Patrick touch it.

Patrick reaches for it anyway, extending both hands like a child grabbing for a toy, but drops them when Pete flinches away.

"I take it everywhere, pretty much. I write, like, everything down. Everything I do in a day, everything I learn, I write it down in here. That's how I knew I'd slept with you even though you wiped my memory. That's, like, exactly why I keep it, pretty much - so that if I get wiped, I can see what's real and what's not."

"Smart," Patrick says. "How long have you had it?"

"Since I, like - turned up, I guess. It was just - there, in my pocket. And - I opened it, and it said this." Pete opens the book to the front page and angles it towards Patrick. "Write everything down. So I did."

Patrick squints at it - Pete sees the moment where the realisation hits him. "Is that - ?"

Pete nods. "I think so."

"Holy fuck," Patrick says, his eyes wide and his hands twitching towards the notebook. "So - so - what does this mean? I knew you were gonna get, like, wiped?"

Pete shrugs. "I guess so."

"Is that - good?" Patrick asks, wincing a little as he looks at Pete. "I knew you were gonna forget everything and I let it happen anyway?"

"I don't know," Pete says, "maybe there was no other option. Or, yeah, maybe you just hated me."

"You - really think I would have done that?" Patrick says, running a hand through his hair and resting his elbows on his knees. "Pete - you saw how in love we were. How could I have possibly let that happen?"

"I don't know, how could you encourage discrimination and hatred?" Pete snaps. Patrick looks up, his eyes hurt. Pete forces himself not to care.

"It's - it's Andy, man, I don't know," he protests, "I - I'm not - I don't know." He deflates into the couch, rubbing his eyes.

"Whatever. Anyway," Pete says, snapping the notebook shut. "That's another thing to think about. Whatever happened between us, we were obviously close up until the end. You knew where to find me."

"So - what happened to me must have happened after what happened to you?" Patrick says, and once Pete unscrambles it, he nods.

"I guess so. I guess we're getting closer, right?" Then again, each piece of the puzzle just seems to show that the jigsaw is a lot bigger than they previously thought. "What was your thing?"

"Oh - uh," Patrick starts, his eyes flashing with something melancholy. "We were married."

Pete is equal parts unsurprised and ready to fall of the couch. "Shit," he says, "how'd you know?"

"Joe found another memory. It's - we've got rings," he says, his voice hitching as he finishes. "It was, like, our anniversary. Here," he digs into the pocket of his jeans and brings out the tiny slip of metal. "It's yours. I'm sorry I watched it."

"'S fine," Pete says, letting Patrick drop the memory into his outstretched palm. "I guess we were that close."

"Yeah," Patrick says, looking away, "It's crazy, we were so - in love, and now I don't even remember my own wedding day." He rubs at his eyes once again, and it takes Pete far too long to realise that he's crying.

"Hey - uh," Pete stammers, hovering a hand over Patrick's shoulders and wondering what the hell he should say. "We'll find more. It'll be okay," he tries. Patrick just sniffs louder. Reluctantly, Pete touches Patrick's shoulder, and the man leans into it, swiping at his eyes.

Eventually, Patrick sits up, taking a deep breath and sniffing defiantly. "Okay. I'm good, I swear. This whole thing is just - really weird."

"I know," Pete says, "it's fucking with me, too."

"Also," Patrick says, grabbing for Pete's forearm, "you - you're a doctor, right?"

Pete wriggles his arm from Patrick's grip and nods cautiously. "Yes. Well. A doctor of - brains."

"But you know some body stuff too, right?"

"If there's a strange lump on your penis, I really would rather you took it elsewhere," Pete frowns, shifting away from Patrick and shaking his head.

"Hey!" Patrick snaps, "My penis is perfect, thanks. You've seen it," he adds, "it's a model cock."

"It's alright," Pete shrugs, enjoying the way Patrick pouts. "So what other mutation do you have?"

"It's just a scar," Patrick says, beginning to unbutton his shirt. It all begins to look like some strange ploy to get Pete into bed, but when Patrick opens his shirt and shrugs out his shoulder, Pete can see a clear mark. "What do you think caused that?"

Pete squints at it, placing his hands either side of it and feeling the ridge of it with his thumb. White cracks snake out from the centre, a purple-red hovering under the skin in the middle. He hums with interest. "Definitely some kind of puncture wound," he says, "quite possibly a bullet. Have you ever been shot?" he says, looking up at Patrick, whose face is suddenly uncomfortably close.

He can read the look in Patrick's eyes as clear as day. His lips twitch a few inches from Pete's, his gaze locked shamelessly on Pete's mouth. Pete almost pulls away - then again, he'd quite like to see what exactly Patrick does.

"No," he breathes. Pete can see the indecision on his face, and wonders which side he'll settle for - gentleman or asshole. There's a second or two in which Pete is convinced Patrick is going to lean forward and shove their mouths together, but then Patrick looks away, pulling his shirt shut and shifting further from Pete. Pete almost smiles - Patrick's finally learnt some respect.

"I thought it was from a motorcycle accident," Patrick says, "like - that's what I remember. I got this scar from a motorcycle accident."

Pete makes an uncertain noise and shrugs. "I mean - that may have involved a puncture wound. But - I dunno. Given how all this has gone so far, it wouldn't surprise me if that memory is a cover-up."

"For what?"

"Whatever the fuck got you shot," Pete says. "And someone clearly doesn't want you to know about it."

"Fuck," is all Patrick says. Pete watches his mind tick over.

"Listen - Patrick," Pete sighs, placing a sympathetic hand on Patrick's knee, "I know you - _like_ me, and I like you too, it's just -"

"I'm an asshole, I get it," Patrick sulks, avoiding Pete's eyes.

"Hey, don't be like that," Pete scolds, folding his arms, "I just - I can't be with someone right now. I'm still trying to figure out who I am, and -"

"But, so am I," Patrick emphasises. "We're going through the same thing, we're -" 

"So maybe you're not ready either," Pete reasons, "I think - whatever happens, we need to wait until we're just a little more stable."

Patrick sighs, but nods. "I'm sorry," he says, and for once, he sounds like he means it, "I just - I want that back. What we had. You know?"

"Yeah. I want it too," Pete says. He looks at the memory in the palm of his hand and thinks how much they've robbed him of. "We could just try to be friends, though."

Patrick looks at him as if he's just suggested they go to Mars. "Like - just hang out?"

"Yeah," Pete says with a smile, "you wanna watch a movie or something?"

"Here?" Patrick says, observing the mess in front of the TV and across the coffee table. "I've got a home cinema."

Pete scowls. "Yes, _here_. You wanna get to know me? You gotta live in my fucking mess."

"Fine," Patrick says, crossing his legs and huffing. "You got any food? I'm starving."

"Oh, yes, sir, I'll bring you some right away," Pete says acidly, rolling his eyes but making for the kitchen all the same. "Your Lordship may have some - uh, sausage rolls," Pete starts, peering into his refrigerator and frowning at the single onion on the shelf, "some milk," he adds, grabbing the bottle from the inside of the door and waving it proudly at Patrick, "or - oh, some pasta bake I froze like, a month ago."

Patrick looks at him blankly from across the room. "Let's order," he says, already pulling out his phone.

Pete huffs, slamming the fridge shut with as much bitchiness as he can muster, but concedes all the same. His acquaintance-slash-ex-husband is a billionaire - he might as well exploit it.

-

The next day, Pete watches the memory.

Patrick left late the previous night, after several movies and a feast fit for a CEO. He decidedly did not kiss Pete - even his hug at the end of the night was hesitant, apologetic - and Pete is rather enjoying watching his pet project flourish into someone vaguely likeable. It's going to take several more takeouts to get to anywhere near friends, but at least Patrick's not quite rotten to the core.

Pete won't lie to himself anymore - he was really, truly in love with Patrick. Whether Patrick felt the same, whether it was all an elaborate scheme to con Pete into trusting him is yet to be revealed. All Pete can think about is the very real possibility that Patrick was the one who fucked everything over for him.

However, Pete sees more than wedding rings. He sees streets, road signs, businesses. This is so much bigger than Patrick realised - this memory could unlock everything for them.

Pete spends the evening hunched over his computer, avidly scouring the internet for wherever Greenleaf Avenue is. There's hundreds across the country, but only a few with records of a public library and a Noodle Cafe so near. Patrick's got such a strong Chicago accent that it's difficult to believe he could have grown up anywhere else, and so Greenleaf Avenue, Wilmette seems to fit the bill.

He sits back and stares at the tiny red pin on the map. After weeks of floundering, they finally have a place to start.

-

They meet that weekend, clad in duffel coats and scarves.

Pete's car is as messy as his house, food wrappers and tickets and flyers spilling out of every pocket. Patrick doesn't say a word, though, sitting quietly across from Pete as the car takes them south. Nerves buzz low in Pete's chest, his knee bouncing and his fingers tugging at a loose thread from his jeans. Pete really has no idea what they'll find.

He takes the wad of papers from his pocket - neat, clear drawings of the streets and a row of arrows indicating their path through the town, shaded circles picking out the cafe, the department store, the bank. A large X marks their apartment, or at least, Pete's estimate. He can't quite decide if he'd prefer to be wrong - he's not sure how he or Patrick will react to all this becoming so tangible.

Patrick seems to be having a crisis of his own next to Pete. He stares obsessively out of the window as they near their destination, his hands clutching a map and ripping tiny pieces out of it with each mile they cover. He's brought a hat and a scarf to cover his face - the last thing they need is a riot - and he seems unhappy about doing so, the scarf tossed aside as soon as he got into the car and his hat crushed underneath his arm. Pete pities him - he doesn't envy being so hated.

But as they get closer, it becomes clear that they have bigger problems. Suburbs crumble into slums, tarmac cracks up, neon-lit shopping centres become closed shutters and smashed windows. Patrick casts Pete a glance; his eyes rumble with worry.

There's people on the streets, lurking in the shadows - they emerge as the car rolls past, pointing and grabbing for one another. Pete is grateful for the tinted glass as he looks out at them. Pete's seen the fringes of Chicago's rougher areas, lives on the doorstep between extreme poverty and extreme wealth, but this is something else altogether.

Tower blocks of government-issued living pods build up around them, slathered in corrugated iron and chipboard. They look on the verge of collapse, skewed at odd angles, death-trap staircases wrapped around them like scars. Pete can barely tear his gaze away, suddenly immeasurably grateful that he was dumped in a semi-respectable starter apartment and not here. Patrick looks utterly stricken.

A child runs out into the road and the car stops sharply, throwing them both forward and knocking the breath from Pete. She's all bones, her hair shaved short, barefoot. A man - her father, presumably - scoops her off the road with white-knuckled fists and a panicked scowl, shaking her as she struggles. Behind them, parents restrain their own children, their eyes trained on the car.

They slow to a stop as the car announces that they've reached their destination, parking itself neatly at the side of the road. The engine switches off and drops them into complete silence. Pete looks across the car.

Patrick shakes his head. "I can't go out there," he says quietly. "I just - _can't_."

"It'll be fine, they won't recognise you, they -"

"What if they do, Pete?" he says, his eyes wide with fear, "they'll - they'll _kill_ me."

Pete purses his lips. This is a very real possibility. He suddenly understands why Patrick is usually flanked by two massive bodyguards. "Uh - just, like," he grabs Patrick's scarf and wraps it around his neck, pulling it up over the lower half of his face. "Then put the hat on."

Patrick does so, bringing it low over his eyes so that only the bridge of his nose is visible. "Okay?"

"Yeah," Pete nods, sitting back and looking at Patrick. "Let me do the talking, though." This rule would apply whether Patrick was in danger or not.

As they get out of the car, the staring eyes scatter, instead peering from staircases and windows. Pete shrugs on his coat and gloves, watching Patrick hurry around the car and stay close. Pete takes his map from his pocket.

"So - that was the superstore we walked past," he murmurs, pointing across the street to a wasteland of a parking lot. It's a landfill, an eyesore, the lake breeze blowing tumbleweeds of garbage across the frozen dirt. "And this used to be the high-street, I guess."

"Spare any change?" a woman suddenly cries from under a lopsided porch, her baby clutched to her chest. "Please - anything?"

Patrick goes to dig into his pockets and Pete catches his arm, dragging him away. "Don't," he says, "just - don't."

"But - she had a kid," Patrick protests, looking back at the porch and struggling in Pete's grip. "We should give _something_ -"

"Change comes from the White House, not your pockets," Pete spits, "and you do _not_ want to show how rich you are."

Patrick's face falls. He skips to catch up with Pete, pulling his hat further over his brow and keeping his eyes low. "Are we gonna - talk to anyone? Find out what happened?"

"Yeah, in a minute," Pete says, following his map towards the turning where their house should be. "Okay - this is the street."

"There's no houses," Patrick says. He's rather good at stating the obvious.

The land is barren, a post-apocalyptic scene sandwiched between the two blocks of pods. The road exists only in their minds, stretching across the charred remains of brickwork, the skeletons of houses. Pete feels Patrick step closer to him, their shoulders brushing.

"Holy fuck," Patrick breathes, "what happened?"

Pete fears the worst - the street looks as if it's been bombed. He looks around, seeing a woman peering at them from around her door frame. "Excuse me, ma'am?" he says, taking a step closer to her. "Do you know what happened here?"

The woman watches him warily for a few seconds. "Bad things," she says eventually.

"What bad things," Pete asks gently, leading Patrick closer to the porch.

The woman shakes her head. "It's dangerous knowledge. Everyone was wiped."

"Do you know anyone who wasn't?" Patrick asks, despite Pete's strict instructions, "like - does _anyone_ know?"

The woman shakes her head. "No-one wants to."

"Okay," Pete says, "thank you." He gives her a grateful smile, and turns away, beckoning for Patrick to follow.

"What the fuck? So - so, like, it was so bad they wiped everyone? That's insane!" Patrick whispers furiously. "What the fuck did we do?"

Pete's no longer sure if he'd like to find out. If nobody living next door to the bombsite knows, it's unlikely that anybody else on earth will. Pete didn't count on a dead end.

Just as he's planning on giving up, a hand seizes his arm and pulls him into the shadow of a stairwell. He cries out, certain that they've been recognised, that this is where the angry mob rips them both to bits and sells their clothes, but instead, a voice hisses in his ear. "I know who you wanna find," a deep voice growls. Pete turns to see a bald, bearded man, his breath rancid and his eyes yellowing. "But it'll cost you."

Pete shakes his head. "I'm sorry, we don't have any money," he stammers, attempting to pry the man's hand from his arm. "Please - let me go."

A fist suddenly flies out of nowhere and smack the man in the nose, causing him to reel backwards and release Pete's arm. "Listen," Patrick growls, "don't touch him again. We've got money - but you take us to this person first."

The man wipes his nose on his sleeve and scowls. "Fine," he says, pushing past them, "this way."

Patrick does, and Pete stares after him, eventually skipping to catch up. "Where the fuck did that come from?" he hisses, jabbing Patrick in his ample gut.

"Dunno," he shrugs. "This place got me all fired up."

Pete makes a face at him, but says nothing, following the man down the street to where Pete's ninety percent sure they'll be shot. He leads them down an alleyway between two blocks of pods, ducking under beams and loose wires until he reaches a staircase and climbs, his rotten boots creaking with the wood.

“You better hope she’s not asleep,” he grunts, steadying himself on the crumbling bannister and pointing to a pod at the end of the open hallway. “Where’s that reward at?”

Patrick hands him two fifty dollar bills without flinching, and the man grins, gleeful. He gestures that they go first, and Pete hesitates to comply - he doesn’t trust this man one bit and he has a strong suspicion that they’re both going to die, but Patrick steps forward instead, pushing Pete behind him and venturing towards the door.

He knocks twice.

A loud crash sounds from within, followed by a string of curses. Pete jumps, keeping Patrick squarely in front of himself - his girth makes him an effective shield. “Fuck off, I’m asleep!” a voice shrieks, its owner banging on the door from the inside.

“We just wanna talk to you,” Patrick calls, “we’re - new in town.”

“Fuck off where you came from, then!”

Patrick raps on the door once again despite Pete’s silent protests. “We have some questions - we were told you’re the only one who knows the answer.”

“Don’t care - go away.”

“We’ve got money.”

The door opens.

Behind it stands a young woman, perhaps still a teenager, dressed in a ragged dressing gown and sporting hair that would make a porcupine jealous. Thick gloves sit over her hands, and in the right she clutches a small hammer. For a second, Pete's convinced she'll stave in Patrick's head - but then she lowers her arm and scampers back into the house. They follow warily.

It's tiny - the walls seem to be caving in on them as they walk, the whole house confined to two pods, a kitchen and a bedroom. Every single surface is covered with wooden animals. "Did you make these?" Patrick asks, because interacting with the crazy woman further is clearly the best thing to do, "they're beautiful."

She nods absently from the kitchen table, where she's sanding down the face of a large owl. "Don't touch them," she says, even though Pete would never dream of it.

He clears his throat. "So - so, could you tell us - ow!"

"What type of wood are they made from?" Patrick says, finally removing his foot from where he'd lodged it in Pete's ankle.

"All kinds," she says, not taking her eyes off the owl. "Whatever I find."

"Where do you find it?"

"Everywhere."

Patrick moves closer to the chair opposite her, spindly and carved with intricate patterns. "Did you make this, too?"

She nods, picking up her tools and shaving a detail into the owl's beak.

"Can I sit on it?"

Looking him up and down, she frowns and shakes her head. "Too fat. Might break it."

Patrick grins all the same, pointing towards Pete. "Can he sit on it?"

Her eyes rest on him until the hairs on his arms begin to stand on end. "Yes."

Pete does so quickly and quietly, skittering around her as if she's a ticking time bomb. She watches him until he stops fidgeting.

"Why are you here," she says. "What do you want to know."

"We'd like to know what you know about this town," Patrick says, "we'll pay you handsomely if you tell us the truth."

"Truth," she murmurs to the owl. "No such thing."

"Do you remember what happened?"

She looks up sharply, chisel in hand. "No. I don't remember anything. They all have the," she jabs a gloved finger hard into her temple, " _things_. They see different to me."

"What do you see?"

"Are you from the government again," she says, "if you are, I'll slice your belly open and make wolves from your bones."

Pete resists the temptation to bury his head in his hands. He hopes she guts Patrick before she comes for him.

"Nope," Patrick says, "we think the government is hiding something from us. We wanna find out what it is."

She gives an affectionate hum and resumes sanding carefully, the harsh scrapes ringing in Pete's ears. "They burnt it down," she says simply.

"Why?"

"Take your mask off," she says suddenly, fixing Patrick with wild brown eyes and brandishing the chisel.

"I can't do that," Patrick says, his voice surprisingly level.

"Why," she says, every muscle in her body poised to strike.

"I - I'm from the TV, I wouldn't want you to recognise me."

"I don't watch TV," she says. "Take off the mask."

Pete can do little except watch the conflict flit through Patrick's eyes. Both options could end in a stabbing. Pete winces as Patrick goes to remove his hat and scarf.

When she sees his face, her eyes widen. "Stump?"

"You - you know me?"

" _Traitor_!" she shouts suddenly, "traitor! Traitor!" Leaping to her feet, she hurls her chisel across the room and Patrick ducks to the side, narrowly avoiding it.

"Hey - please, calm down, what did I do?"

"Fuck _off_!" she screams, "Get out! Go away!" Pete dives from the chair and runs across the room, yanking the front door open and beckoning for Patrick to move out of the path of the psychopath.

"I will, I will, just - tell me what I did!" he cries, holding his arms up as she begins to pummel him with her fists.

"You left! They blew us up because of _you_ ! You said you'd help, you said you'd save us and they they came and I thought you'd died and we _mourned_ , we fucking _mourned_ for you and then they took it all!" she grabs her own hair and bangs her fists against her head. "They took everyone's minds and now I'm a liar!"

"I don't remember!" Patrick exclaims, backing towards the door as she shrieks nonsense at him. "Please - tell me what I did!"

"You _helped_ !" she screams, "Now you're lazy and fat and you ruined everything! Get _out_!"

Patrick finally seems to commit to saving his own life and scuttles out of the door, yelping when a wooden cat thunks into the back of his head. Pete attempts to slam the door closed, but she grabs it before he can, her crazed expression spitting fireballs at both of them.

"Come back when you're who you were, Patrick Stump," she snarls. Then she shuts the door.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for another installment of Big Fat Pat and his Bad Ideas! 
> 
> Tell me your thoughts in the comments - what is it that Pete sees? 
> 
> Enjoy?

_ whats ur password _ , Joe types. He sends the message, then flicks his gaze back to the tabletop. 

The screen glows in the semi-darkness - he's not technically allowed to be here, he doesn't think, but hell, he's the future president's PA, he can do most things unpoliced. The cursor blinks at him - he checks his phone again. No replies. 

He's been thinking about it for weeks - Patrick's a powerful man, there must be an easier way to search for memories than scavenging for dubious tip-offs spawned from rumours - and if there's one thing Joe's not entirely useless at, it's computers. 

_ dunno _

Joe scrapes a hand across his face as the text lights up his phone. Of course Patrick's forgotten a highly important password. 

_ i always use the finger print thing  _

Of course he does. Joe sighs, making to turn off the screen before another text pops up. 

_ could use tape like in movies  _

For a moment, Joe has no idea what Patrick means - then realises that Patrick's prints must be all over the screen and the surrounding desk. 

_ tape is in drawer. if it doesn't work wait til tomorrw. gotta go  _

Rolling his eyes, Joe begins to rifle through the small draws in the desk until he comes across a tiny roll of tape. He sincerely doubts that this stands a chance of working, but he has nothing to lose, so he very carefully tears a strip of tape off without touching it himself and shines his phone light across the shined surface of the desk in search of a relatively intact print. 

They're difficult to see, only catching the light at specific angles, but eventually he finds a particularly greasy print at the edge of the desk and presses the tape firmly into it. He hopes Patrick appreciates his trouble - he expects double the pizza this week. Peeling the tape away, he sticks it tight to the sensor on the screen. It lights with green. 

_ Welcome, Mr. Andrew Hurley _ , it says. Joe groans. Apparently, it isn't his day. 

Mr. Hurley has never liked Joe. He's recommended Joe be sacked more than once, he won't talk to Patrick if Joe is around. Granted, Joe invests much more time and money into staying blazed than he does his job, but Patrick never seemed to mind. He's come to like Patrick more and more since the man broke down in Joe's lap - he's got a quiet kindness about him underneath all the arrogance. Hurley has the reverse. 

It's for this reason and this reason alone that Joe begins to snoop through Hurley's files - he wonders if the man stores porn on here, if he's uploaded any sensitive memories, if there's any dirt to be had on him at all. Joe hopes for a foot fetish - the guy's got a foot fetish kind of look about him. 

But it's all stats and charts, draft manifestos and speeches, and not a foot in sight. Perhaps Hurley doesn't feel sexual urges - perhaps he simply lays eggs in whatever warm body is most convenient. Joe shudders at the thought. 

Then, he sees the folder marked  _ private _ . This must be porn - Joe taps on it avidly. Instead, what springs into view is names. 

There must be a hundred of them, each with their own folder, all sorted in alphabetical order. K. Grant, M. Mitchell, P. Stump. Joe squints at them all, his mind reeling. 

_ something's up with Hurley _ , he types to Patrick, _ got into his files and it's weird. _

He taps on Patrick's name. Perhaps it's simply addresses, or birthdays, or - or a single file marked with only a forward slash. Next to it, it says  _ 20TB _ . The file takes up twenty terabytes worth of storage. He winces as he taps it. 

_ File type is not supported.  _

He double taps it instead - a list of options appears. The only one available is print. He makes a face at the screen. 

_ found a folder with your name on. do i print?  _

But Patrick hasn't been online for the past few minutes, and Joe's becoming more nervous by the second. He decides to leave it up to fate - he covers his eyes and jabs blindly at the screen. A few seconds later, he hears the whir of the printer. 

For a few minutes, he just watches the bar fill up on the screen, the colours pulsing across it, hypnotic. The printer embedded into the side of the desk groans with the effort - Joe had no idea a memory could be so large. The realisation hasn't quite sunk in - this could be a whole lifetime of memories. This could be a copy of Patrick's mind. Hurley's up to something - something colossal. Joe doesn't like it one bit. He rather wishes he'd found the porn instead. 

At long last, the printer spits out a tiny slip of metal and ceases its laboured sputtering. Joe picks it up and immediately drops it again - it's scalding hot, the tips of his fingers reddening as he nurses them. The screen flashes with _ caution, allow chip to cool _ , and Joe tuts at it. These machines aren't commonplace - only the super-rich own them, the rest of the population relying on printing shops and online distributors. He forgets, sometimes, how inconceivably wealthy Patrick is. 

When the chip is warm to the touch, Joe picks it up and holds it loosely in his palm, watching how the light bounces off it with an iridescent shine. He closes the window on the screen and clicks back through Hurley's folders. He's rather relieved that there isn't one with his own name stamped across it. Pete doesn't have one, either. Joe wonders what exactly all these people have in common. 

"Having fun?" 

Joe looks up sharply. Hurley stands in the half-light, his hands motionless by his sides and his eyes cold. 

"I - uh, you left it logged in, I was just -" 

"Come with me," Hurley states. Joe shakes his head. 

"I gotta get back, it's getting late -" 

"That's an order, Trohman." 

Joe does as he’s told.

-

"You were - acting kind of odd, I gotta say," Pete shrugs as they sit, surrounded by paper and plastic bags of memories. Pete's apartment is still a dump, but he's cleared a space on the dining table for the two of them to write down everything they remember about their strange trip to Wilmette. Patrick's hand is beginning to ache - it's been years since he's had to write this much by hand. 

“I  _ felt  _ kind of odd,” Patrick says, pondering the strange confidence the place seemed to give him. “Maybe I  _ knew  _ a crazy woman was gonna throw a wooden cat at me.” 

“Happens to the best of us,” Pete sighs, “she didn’t seem to hate who you were, though. Only who you are.” 

“Yeah, I’m over the moon,” Patrick scoffs. He tries to remember what exactly she said to him, his pen hovering over the paper. “What was it?  _ You’re lazy and fat and you ruined everything?”  _

“Well -” Pete starts, his eyes flickering from Patrick to a spot on the far wall. “I don’t know what to say to that, but apparently you said you’d help with - something. I don’t know, okay?” he emphasises when Patrick raises a skeptical eyebrow. 

His biggest fear is realising itself in front of his eyes. “What if I was just - the same, though? What if, like, we’re thinking I was this amazing, inspirational person when really I was just a different kind of jerk?” 

Pete sighs, capping his pen and sitting back in his chair. “I don’t know. I get it, though. I thought I’d be different, y’know? More - confident, or - better, or something. Instead I’m just - kind of dull.” 

“You’re not dull,” Patrick tells him, “you’re just - quiet. You’re a thinker.” 

With a snort, Pete shuffles the papers in front of him. “Yeah, something like that. But she didn’t remember me. So - maybe by that point I’d already been wiped, or whatever.” 

“I do sort of feel like this is my mess. Maybe I dragged you into it.” 

“Wouldn’t put it past you,” Pete says, gesturing to the mess of paperwork in front of them. “So - Okay. We have the present -” he points to the notes at the far end of the table, “which is, like, us sleeping together after the party, etcetera. Then, at the other end we have the first memory - the one of us sleeping together. That’s a different location to the one where we’re married.” 

“But before that, we have the whole motorcycle scar thing,” Patrick adds, “and then between the married one and now we have - whatever the fuck that woman was trying to tell us.” 

“Yeah,” Pete nods. The memories are carefully labelled and lined up chronologically. “Okay.” 

“D’you know what scares me?” Patrick says softly, his eyes raking over their scrawled notes, “what if, like, my whole life was overwritten? What if everything I remember is fake?” 

Pete purses his lips, turning his pen over and over in his hands. “I think you’ve gotta be prepared for that to be the case,” he says, “because - I don’t know if there’s any other explanation.”

Patrick nods. The thought makes him nauseous - would he still be himself? Or would he turn into the man he felt echoes of in Wilmette? He feels torn between two people, and is equally scared of both of them. 

"What do you think it means that I was acting weird when we went back there?" he asks, cautious of the answer. 

"I don't know," Pete says, but he always says that when he's about to say something extremely intelligent. "I mean - when I, y'know, arrived here, I knew all this stuff about memory already. Joanna realised I must've had some kind of training in memory studies, so - I breezed through the qualifications and helped her set up her surgery. If there's anything I took away from those studies, it's that we don't understand memory at all. It's possible that being back there triggered subconscious reactions from experiences you've stored, but can't access, because they've been removed from the forefront of your consciousness." 

"Whoa," is all Patrick can say. Pete shrugs like it's nothing. Patrick wants to kiss him so badly. "So - in theory, the memories could be triggered by - other stuff?" Patrick asks, thinking of their first night together after the party. He'd wanted Pete with no prompting. 

"I guess," Pete says, "maybe whoever you used to be sort of - came to the surface in Wilmette." 

"Did you like me better," Patrick asks, keeping his eyes fixed on the dot of an i in front of him. He can feel Pete watching him. 

"I don't think you should regularly punch people on my behalf, no," Pete says, "but - I think you handled it well. You're much better with people that I am." 

All the wrong people, apparently. Patrick takes the compliment all the same, smiling a little and throwing a glance towards Pete. 

"Oh, quit acting all shy, you  _ know  _ you are," Pete scoffs. "You nearly talked me round in that meeting. You can talk anyone into anything." 

Patrick's about to say that if that were true, he and Pete would be in love already, but he keeps his mouth shut. He's learning, slowly, how to talk to someone's face rather than a microphone. Pete wants someone real, someone genuine. Patrick is working on that. 

"Did Joe ever get back to you about the database?" Pete asks, and Patrick gratefully accepts the subject change. He shakes his head. 

"I'll call him," Patrick says, digging his phone from his pocket and tapping at it until he the dial tone sounds.

"Hey, man," Joe's bright voice buzzes, "what's up?" 

Patrick frowns. "Uh - you were gonna print something for me? A file?" 

"Was I? Which file?" Joe asks absently. 

"The one you texted me about. You found it on Andy's account." 

"Did I?" 

Pete's brows are pinched together, his eyes brimmed with worry, so Patrick taps the speakerphone icon and places the slip of glass in the centre of the table. "Yeah, did you print it?" 

"Uh..." he tails off, clearly aiming towards a  _ no _ . 

"Joe," Pete says carefully, "do you remember going to the MANIA building, into Patrick's office and logging in with his fingerprint?" 

"I'm at home," Joe informs them. Pete lets out a breath of frustration. 

"No - no, do you remember texting Patrick about printing a file?" 

"Uh - no," he says finally. 

"Joe," Pete says, slow and sombre, "I think you've had your memory altered." 

"Oh," is all Joe says. 

"Do you have any kind of file there with you?" 

"Uh -" there's a short pause, and a scuffling sound trickles through the speaker. "I have a memory. But - I dunno if it's an old one, or what." 

"Okay," Pete says, "bring it here. You have my address - get here as soon as you can." 

"Alright," Joe says, sounding uncertain.

"We'll order food," Patrick supplies, and Joe hums with interest. 

"Alright. See you soon," he says. Then he hangs up. 

"Fuck, man. I wonder who took his memory of it," Patrick says, leaning back in his chair. Pete purses his lips, but says nothing. Patrick thinks he already knows who might be behind this. 

-

"Hurley asked where you were," Joe says as he walks through Pete's door. "I told him you were at home. I think he's getting suspicious about what you're up to." 

"No shit," Patrick says, wading through Pete's mess and towards the couch. "We think he must've found you out." 

"Well, he can't have discovered much - otherwise I doubt I'd be here," Joe laughs. There's a fear behind his eyes. Patrick feels it mirrored in his chest. 

"Do you have it?" Patrick asks, "the memory?" 

"I have  _ a  _ memory," Joe frowns. "Dunno where it came from, though. Did I text you anything else?" 

Joe's face grows ever more puzzled as he scrolls through the messages from himself on Patrick's phone. "Holy moly," he says, "this is - fucked up." 

"You okay?" Patrick asks gently, watching Joe's face turn pale and his eyes widen. "Do you need some coffee?"

"I don't have coffee," Pete interjects, "I ran out, like, a month ago."

Patrick throws him a glare and turns back to Joe. "Look, we're gonna sort this out. From what it looks like, you found your way into Andy's account and looked through it. You found one about me and printed it. If it's my memory, then - that could change, like, everything." 

When Joe produces the metal square from his pocket and holds it in the palm of his hand, Patrick's heart climbs into his throat. Each time he's pressed a memory to his temple, he's prayed it'll be his own. He wants his own mind back. He reaches for the square. 

"Whoa, whoa," Pete says, leaning over the back of the couch and placing a hand on Patrick's shoulder. "You don't know what that is." 

"I've got a pretty good idea," Patrick says, taking it from Joe and staring at it, the way it catches the light. He has a strange feeling that this is the key to it all. 

"Patrick," Pete says in his disapproving adult voice, "just - think about this. We have no idea where this came from. For all we know, Hurley could have planted it on Joe, knowing that you'd watch it. What if there's a virus on there? That could kill you." 

"And the world would be a better place," Patrick spits, suddenly desperate, suddenly angry. "If it's got my memories on it, I wanna watch it." 

"Look, man, I think he's right," Joe sighs, his big blue eyes filled with pity. Patrick hates it. "I got a bad feeling about this." 

"You don't even remember it!" Patrick cries, pointing a finger at Joe, "you don't know anything about what this is!" 

"I dunno! I just feel like there's something - wrong," Joe shrugs. Patrick kicks at the leg of the coffee table and the three-day-old plates rattle. 

"Hey!" Pete snaps, "Don't act like a fucking child." 

"Why not?!" Patrick shrieks, "That's what you both think I am! Patrick Stump, the fucking naive man-child, right?!" 

"At this precise moment, yes," Pete says, folding his arms across his chest. "Now, let's look at this logically -" 

"This is my  _ life _ !" Patrick yells, "You don't fucking  _ get  _ it! You've  _ got  _ your fucking memories back! I've got  _ nothing _ ! My whole life is a fucking fake!" 

"We're gonna work it out," Pete sighs, but he doesn't look like he believes it. "Just - don't go putting strange bits of metal in your brain." 

"Fine!" Patrick shouts, getting to his feet and slamming the memory down on the coffee table. "Fucking  _ fine _ . Do whatever the fuck you want with it, everyone else has." 

He storms around the couch and pushes past Pete, grabbing his coat from the back of a chair and heading for the front door. He expects someone to follow him - no-one does. He shoves his shoes on and yanks the door open. Still nothing. When he slams the door behind him, he feels the heat of tears behind his eyes. 

Pete doesn't care. Joe doesn't care. After all this time, he's still just that fucking asshole from the TV. It's raining, cold and miserable as he waits for his car to pull up outside Pete's shitty apartment, shivering in his too-thin jacket and no gloves. All he wants to do is sulk, throw things, break things. He knows Pete's right, he knows he's only proving that he's nothing more than a petulant child, but it's not  _ fair _ . He had the world at his feet - now he barely has his sanity. 

No-one calls him, that evening. No-one asks if he's okay. He wants sympathy, plain and simple, he wants someone to coo and hush and nod in understanding. He goes to bed early, curling up in the sheets and feeling downright sorry for himself. He rather wishes he'd kept the memory, though. 

Despite this, he's terrified. If that really is something of his, if it could tell him every secret of his missing life, does he want to know? Does he want to see himself spread bare, warts and all, only to find that he was no better than he is now? The woman in Wilmette  _ hated  _ him. Most of the country seems to hate him. Pete probably hates him, too. 

He sleeps erratically, the worry gnawing at his insides, tugging at his mind. He swears the whole world has turned against him.

-

"Have you stopped sulking, yet?" Pete says flatly when Patrick begrudgingly picks up his phone the next morning. 

"Fuck you," Patrick spits, tucking himself further under the covers and frowning hard at the darkness. 

"I'll take that as a  _ no _ . Anyway, I uploaded the file to my office computer, and it's twenty terabytes of data. You'd have died if you'd tried to watch it all yesterday. So - you're welcome, I guess." 

Patrick huffs into the covers, gripping his pillow tight. 

"There's no malware on it, though, so I'm gonna split it into manageable chunks, and then we can try to watch it all. As I said - it's a fucking big file, so - it could take months to get through it." 

"Cool," Patrick says, nonchalant. Perhaps Pete will like him if he acts like he doesn't care. 

"Don't act like you don't care," Pete says, "now get to the surgery, we've got shit to do." 

Patrick grumbles his agreement and hangs up, shifting in bed and poking his head out into the light. He spends a few seconds staring at the tinted glass ceiling - all things said, Pete's assertiveness only makes Patrick want him even more. He can see exactly why his past self fell in love with the man. His present self isn't far behind. 

He drags himself out of bed only when he remembers that today might be the day he gets a piece of his life back, the day he enters a loving and healthy relationship with Pete, if only in memory. He's dressed in no time, shovelling down a freshly cooked breakfast and struggling to fasten his belt around his belly. He nods at himself in the mirror as he heads down to the front door - he looks smart, but not overdressed. Even without his stylist, he cleans up well. 

Pete greets him at the back entrance of the surgery, his expression curious and his manner hesitant - when he ushers Patrick inside, his voice is devoid of the blunt, uncaring tone of his phone call. His hands lingers on Patrick's shoulder for a second too long. 

"Just - uh, in here," he says, pointing to a white door along a white corridor lit with white lights. Patrick pushes it open, curious to see where Pete works,  _ how  _ Pete works. 

It's not unlike a dentist's office - a reclining chair sits in the middle of the room, surrounded by spindly metal tables littered with sinister-looking instruments. Patrick's reminded of childhood trips to have dreaded braces fitted - then remembers that that's probably fake. 

"Sit down," Pete says, "yeah - in the chair." Patrick does so, perching on the edge of it as Pete hovers awkwardly around him. "So - so as I said, I've split the memory into smaller parts that you should be able to watch without dying, and - uh, I - uh..." he tails off, scraping a hand over his brows. Patrick frowns. 

"You okay?" 

Pete bites his lip. "Look - okay. I - just wanted to check it was genuine, so that you didn't get disappointed, and so I - I -" 

"You watched some," Patrick says flatly, a coil of disappointment writhing in his gut. "Of course." 

"Just to check, Patrick, I just -" 

"Fucking tell me, then," Patrick hisses, "go on. Am I worse? Did I ruin it all? Am I the fucking monster you thought I was?" Perhaps he murdered someone. Perhaps he took Pete’s mind away. Perhaps he hurt Pete. He feels a sting of self-hatred in his gut.

Pete steps towards a metal tray and picks a memory out of it. "Here. This is the first one." 

"Pete," Patrick says, panic rising in his throat, "Pete, tell me. Is it bad?" 

There's something sad and strange in Pete's eyes as he hands the memory over to Patrick, dropping it into the centre of his outstretched palm. "I only watched a little." 

"Tell me," Patrick orders, then adds a "please."

Pete sighs, sitting down on the opposite edge of the chair. Their arms brush, the heat of Pete’s thigh bleeding into his own. Patrick turns to looks at him - their faces are excruciatingly close. Patrick looks away from Pete's lips - then feels them against his own. 

"Hey - whoa," Patrick says, pulling back and staring, wide-eyed. "You - what are you doing?" 

"I'm - sorry," Pete stammers, "I just - you - I don't know. That was my way of saying - it's not bad. I'm sorry - that was a bad decision, I don't know why I did that. Forget it. I'm sorry." 

Patrick's mouth flaps, still warm with the pressure of Pete's mouth. But through all the confusion clouding his mind, the clarity of what he wants emerges. He wants Pete not to regret him. "Do you - wanna do it again?" 

"Just watch it," Pete says, "I haven't seen much but - what I did see was - quite something." 

"Okay," Patrick says, a spark of hope glowing bright in his chest. The memory is warm in his hand. He stares at it - he holds his whole life on one fingertip. He casts a glance towards Pete, a longing for a few moments more, a final kiss before he goes. Pete slips his hand into Patrick’s. 

Patrick presses the metal to his temple. The room dissolves. 

  
  
  



	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Behold! A chapter! 
> 
> So I know you're here to read this and all but I can't resist one more little self-promo - I've been working on this one project for a while and it's finally done! A whole fic, done and dusted. You can read it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16780543/chapters/39378550) if you'd like - if you're enjoying Politipat, I think you'll like this too, all you twisted beauties. 
> 
> Anyway, on with our weird our weird world and its weirder inhabitants...

"No! No, that's _mine_!" Patrick shouts. Toby is stupid. Patrick hates Toby.

"'S mine now," Toby taunts, holding the bear high over Patrick's head. "You can't reach."

At that, Patrick throws himself at Toby, pummelling the boy in the stomach and clawing at his t-shirt. Toby shoves Patrick away easily - it's not fair, he's bigger than Patrick, it's not _fair_ \- then promptly begins to cry, running back towards the grocery store that their mothers disappeared into and cuddling Percy the bear close to his chest.

Patrick scrambles up from the dust of the sidewalk, winding this way around adults and scuffing his feet against the stones as he toddles as fast as his legs will carry him. This, evidently, is not fast enough - when he rounds the crate of apples and stumbles into the store, he sees Toby clutching his mother and wailing loudly, Patrick's bear still sandwiched in his grasp.

His own mother looks up sharply when he creeps towards the scene. He thinks about running away - but he _needs_ Percy back.

"Patrick?" she barks, beckoning him towards her. He sticks out his chin and waddles towards her - if he stretches out his arms, she might scoop him up. Instead, she grabs a firm hold of his arm and crouches in front of him, leeks rolling around her shopping basket. "Did you upset Toby?"

"No!" Patrick protests, "He - he's got Percy! And it’s _my turn_!"

"I won Percy!" Toby interjects as his own mother holds him back, "You're a bad loser!"

"Toby," Toby's mum says gently, "why don't you give little Patrick his bear?"

"He punched me!" Toby says, snivelling stupidly, "Percy's a stupid name anyway!"

"No it's not!" Patrick yells, feeling his mum wrap a hand around his chest, "give him _back_!"

"Only babies have toys!" Toby says, "you're stupid!"

Patrick feels tears well up in his eyes and scrubs fiercely at them with his mittens. "Shut up! I hate you!"

"Patrick," his mother says firmly, "don't speak like that. You're being rude."

"I don't care!" he screams, "Give me Percy!"

"Right - time out, I think," his mum says, picking him up off the ground and hauling him down the dairy aisle. He kicks and screams - it's _his_ bear, it's not _fair_ , his mum's being horrible and so is Toby and so is everyone else. When he sees Percy carried away in the arms of stupid, stupid Toby, he starts to cry.

"Okay, Patrick," his mother says as she finally sets him down next to the milk, "do you understand why I'm angry?"

"Because you're mean!" Patrick says, scowling. When his mum shakes her head and looks away, he cries harder. "'Cause - 'cause I shouted."

"Yes, Patrick," she nods, leaning to dab at his tears with her sleeve. "And shouting isn't nice, is it?"

"No," Patrick says. "But! But - he took Percy!"

"I've told you this before, Patrick - Percy isn't yours. He belongs to Toby, and Toby very kindly lets you borrow him sometimes, doesn't he."

Sticking out his bottom lip, Patrick grabs at her hands. "That's not _fair_ ," he whines, stomping his boot on the vinyl flooring. "He's got so many toys!"

His mother strokes her gloved fingers through his hair. "Where's your hat, sweetie?"

"But why does he get Percy?" Patrick persists. Toby has a model train, Toby has a cellphone, Toby has a games console.

"Because -" his mother starts, then looks him in the eyes and sighs. "Because some people are luckier than us, Patrick. I know it's not fair, but we don't have as much money as Toby's family, that's why you don't have as many toys."

Patrick blinks, fat tears rolling down his cheeks. "But - but you buy things all the time..."

"I buy us food, Patrick. I buy daddy's pills. I buy us winter clothes. Things we need," she explains.

"But I need Percy!" Patrick says, "Please, mummy, I -"

"No, Patrick," his mother says firmly, getting to her feet and taking hold of his arm. "Come and help me choose some veggies."

Patrick casts a final glance towards Toby and his mother as they walk out of the shop. He can see Percy clutched in Toby's stupid hands. _It's not fair_.

-

"....movement, respiration, sensitivity, growth, reproduction, excretion, nutrition," the computerised voice of Patrick's teacher drones to the lounge. He can feel his eyes drooping, his fingers slowing over the keyboard. He's been attempting to catch up all day , but the words are beginning to blur into long strings of sound and the light is stinging his eyes.

He decides that this isn't too important - he could just let his eyes close for a few seconds...

"Bedtime now, I think," his dad's voice sounds in his ear, arms scooped underneath him and lifting him from the couch. He wakes, blinks, fastens a hand to his dad's shirt and holds on tight as he's carried to his bedroom and placed gently on his bed. "There you go, bud."

"Dad," Patrick mumbles into his pillow as his father drapes the covers over him, "how long 'til I can work like you?"

The bed dips as his dad sits beside him and brushes his hair out of his face. "Not yet," the man says, "focus on school. It's important."

Patrick huffs, frowning at his father's figure in the dim light. "But - but we need the money."

"Not as much as you need your education, 'Trick. We're doing just fine, don't worry about money."

"But I can work, I _want_ to work, I -"

"No, Patrick," his dad tells him. "You'll spend the rest of your life working. Make the most of now, sweetie."

Patrick takes it as an insult, an underestimation of his strength, his usefulness.

-

"I told you, I want _two fucking fries_ and a double cheeseburger, are you fucking deaf?" the man yells at Patrick, his face volcanic.

"No, sir, sorry, I -"

" _Sorry_ isn't good enough! You've wasted my time, I want a full refund."

"I can't do that for you, sir, I can give you your order again if that would -"

"No, it wouldn't!" he shouts, pointing a stubby finger at Patrick. "Give me back my money, or I'll never set foot in here again!"

Patrick takes a breath and looks into the man's piggish eyes. "I'm sorry to hear that, sir."

"Stupid little shit," he growls, gesturing to his mortified wife that they're finally leaving. "Can't even flip burgers for a living."

Patrick says nothing as he watches the man storm out of the shop. He grips the edges of the till hard as the next customer approaches - he's still not used to it, the aggression, the entitlement. He's simply hoping he can make it a few weeks without being fired - it's so, painfully obvious that he's not sixteen, his manager must have guessed by now. Perhaps she's taken pity on him.

He's paid cash-in-hand at the end of the day, his fingers greasy and his skin flushed from the heat of the kitchen. He tucks the notes into the pocket of his jeans and dumps his apron in the break room, desperate to breathe air that doesn't smell of meat. Throwing on his jacket and scarf, he hurries into the chilled winter evening. It's getting late - but not too late for what he's been looking forward to ever since he clocked in on Monday morning.

The store is still open - a run down little place on the corner of the street, tired neon croaking news of a never-ending sale. He keeps his hand over the wad of money and ignores the sting of cold at his fingertips, the wind crawling into his scarf, through his hair.

The best he can afford is not great - the tinsel sheds over his hands and the baubles are plastic, shoddy, garish, but he grins at his own warped reflection, runs his fingers affectionately over the bristles of the only Christmas tree he's got the money for. It's a tiny, moth-eaten thing, barely rising to his waist, but the cashier boxes it up for him and places it in a bag that proclaims _Happy Holidays!_ in bright red letters. He scoops it into his arms and shuffles back out into the night.

His mum isn't home just yet - she's been working later and later since his dad was laid off, her eyes carrying a tired, grey look in them and her smile slowly fading. Patrick casts a glance towards the door to the side of the lounge - his dad's probably asleep. Patrick's not sure he'd like to check.

Sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, he carefully assembles the tree, draping lights and tinsel around it and placing a cardboard star on the top. It's nothing special - a little lacklustre when he stands back and stares at it, but it brightens the room, chases the shadows away from the far corner. He arranges some spare pieces of tinsel around the TV, then makes for his mum's handbag, looped around the shoulder of a chair.

He tucks the rest of the bills into the inside pocket, then makes his way to bed.

-

The injection hurts.

It's not that he's scared of needles, per se, he's simply not fond of the sight of one embedded in his elbow, a sting of pain sparking through him whenever he contracts the muscle.

"Just relax," Dr. Hurley tells him, "it'll only hurt more if you don't." This does not help to relax Patrick in the slightest. "Now, are you familiar with this procedure?"

Patrick shakes his head. He's heard his mum talk about it, seen the stories of botched wiring flooding the news, but he wasn't aware that it involved slicing into his skull until Hurley produced the scalpel.

"Well, it's simple, really - I'm going to attach five of these little nodes to each lobe of your brain. Then, I'm going to connect them to this -" he produces a tiny metal disc which gleams bright against the dull blue of his gloves, "and then I'll stitch up the wound. You'll have a nasty scar for a few weeks, but it'll soon clear up. Okay?"

"How much will it hurt," Patrick says quietly. He rather wishes he'd waited, brought his mother along with him when he's of age like everyone else does. Instead, he's brought a hat to hide the scar.

"You're young - it'll heal fast," Hurley tells him. Patrick's about to say that that's not an answer, that he's scared of the pain, not the wound, but Hurley is already pushing the anaesthetic through the IV. He feels his chair being tipped backwards, sees the shine of the scalpel on the table as Hurley reaches for it, wishes his mum was here to hold his hand.

But she's not. He ventures into the darkness alone.

-

"So - so what I'm really here to say to you is that - is that you're being exploited! By - by the men who live beyond the border. The people on TV, the people who buy your memories, they want you to stay poor, they want you to be content. Well - I'm not content! We - we shouldn't have to live like this whilst the rich have - have luxuries. I - I will be holding a meeting at - at a secret location, if you'd like to have your say, come and - and talk to me. I'm Patrick Stump, and I am not content!"

The small crowd around him give him scattered applause. He feels the nerves rush into relief as he realises that he did it, he got up in front of actual people and told them what he wants. Beaming, he climbs off the plastic crate the grocer lent him and looks towards his mother, who claps enthusiastically and opens her arms as he runs towards her.

"That was so good, sweetie," she says, squeezing him tight, "you did so well, I'm so proud of you."

He grins widely as he lets go of her, turning towards the slowly dispersing crowd which is mostly made up of his friends and colleagues. Isaac gives him a thumbs-up, and he waves, bashful.

"Your dad wanted to be here, but - but," his mother starts. Patrick shakes his head.

"It's okay," he says gently, "I know."

From the back of the crowd, Dr. Hurley smiles at him.

-

"The fuck are you looking at," one of them says. Patrick keeps his head down, wishing he'd avoided the shortcut. He considers backing away, sprinting in the opposite direction, but his house is _right there._ He keeps walking.

"Hey -" one of them says. He's a big guy - although, they both are, now that Patrick's pretty sure he's missed his promised growth spurt - and Patrick stops, keeping his eyes trained on the man's boots. "You're that kid. The fucking commie."

Patrick suppresses an eye-roll - he's a libertarian socialist, he'll have them know. He nearly says it; then shuts his mouth at the last second.

"People like you should be shot," the other says, a ratty-looking guy whose shirt is several sizes too big. "Fuckin' - preaching in the street like that. Go get a fucking job."

Patrick would like to point out that he _has_ a job, and one that doesn't involve bullying teenagers in alleyways, but he'd like to make it home without a black eye so he simply bites his lip and takes a few steps forward. A hand on his chest stops him.

"Where d'you think you're going," the big guy says, shoving Patrick backwards and curling his hands into fists. "Empty your fucking pockets."

"I got nothing," Patrick protests, "I swear, just leave me alone."  
  
"Oh, he _swears_ ," rat-face mocks, "guess we'll take his word for it. What's in the bag, kid?"  
  
They grab for his rucksack and he reels backwards, stopping short when his heel hits the wall. He considers his options - if he dropped the bag and ran, he could probably make it home unscathed. If he ran with the bag, they might chase him, and likely catch him. But there's only two of them - they're big, sure, but Patrick's stronger than he looks and he's been saving for Isaac's birthday for months. He's not about to give up his perfect gift so easy.

He drops the bag at his feet. "Look for yourself," he says, keeping his arms loose at his sides. When the man lunges for it, Patrick smacks his knee into the guy's face. He cries out, his hands flying over his now bloody nose, his buddy pushing himself away from the wall and lunging towards Patrick.

For a few seconds, Patrick thinks he has the upper hand - rat-face doesn't land any of his punches, and the big guy whines like a baby as he staggers away. Patrick swings a fist at rat-face, and he goes down. That's when the soldier appears.

The man's eyes are trained on Patrick. Patrick hides his bloody fist and grabs for the bag, poised to sprint for his life, when rat-face grabs his ankle and sends him tumbling to the floor.

The concrete is wet, muddy under his cheek and he winces as pain spreads through his skull. He can hear the footsteps of the soldier, the click of his belt against his gun, the rustle of his breath through the air. Patrick' heard horror stories of encounters like these - children found with bullet holes in their heads, women beaten and raped, men left on the doorsteps of their loved ones. He shuts his eyes and wraps his arms around his face as the soldier nears the big guy.

"Care to tell me who started it?" the soldier asks, looking down at muscle-man's crumpled form. Patrick holds his breath - perhaps if he stays still enough, he'll cease to exist. The big guy says nothing.

"You," the soldier continues, kicking a steel-toed boot against rat-face's shin. "What's going on here?"

Rat-face shrugs, wrapping his hands tight around his knees.

"Who beat you up," the soldier says. "Assault is a serious crime." He taps his gun lightly. Patrick watches and prays that rat-face has a shred of mercy in his rodent soul. The man casts a fleeting glance towards Patrick, but simply shrugs again.

"You - kid," the soldier says, and Patrick pushes himself onto his elbows and hides his bloody fist underneath himself. "I saw you punch this man in the face. You gonna own up to it, or do I have to punish you for lying, too?"

Patrick swallows, his words deserting him. He tries rat-face's strategy and shrugs, blinking wide eyes at the soldier and hoping that his mother was right about them being able to get him whatever he wants. She wasn't - the soldier drives a foot into his kneecap and brandishes the gun. Patrick closes his eyes and waits for the crack of a bullet.

"It was a game," rat-face says suddenly, wiping at his split lip, "I bet him that he couldn't hit me. Guess I lost."

The soldier narrows his eyes. "Is that true?" he asks the big guy, who nods quickly.

"Yeah, yeah, the kid was like, uh, I bet I'm stronger than you and, uh, Matt was like, I bet you're not and uh - I was like oh, uh, you should fight it out and so, uh, they did. And I fell over," he finishes, gesturing to his nose. Patrick and rat-face nod along with him.

"Whatever," the soldier spits, "fine. Don't let me catch you at it again."

"Yep, totally, officer, we're good," the big guy says. The soldier stalks away. They watch him until he turns the corner and disappears.

"Holy shit," rat-face breathes, getting to his feet. Patrick lets himself collapse to the concrete, a disbelieving smile spreading over his face. "You alright, kid?"

Patrick nods, opening his eyes to see rat-face offering him a hand. He takes it gratefully, pulling himself to his feet and leaning into the wall. "Thanks," he says, "fucking hell - thanks so much."

Rat-face - Matt, Patrick thinks he heard him called - waves a hand. "Didn't wanna watch you get shot."

"Well - thanks. Sorry for, like, punching you."

"'S cool. We'll get you next time, or whatever. Now get out of here, little commie."

Patrick doesn't need to be told twice - he grabs his bag and limps away, the alleyway spitting him out onto the foot of his block. He doesn't look back.

-

"Hey - I'm here for the, uh, meeting? Thing?" the man says, waving the pamphlet Patrick and his team had placed on the doorsteps of every house they could reach. He's dressed nice, smart - his jacket looks new and his face is well-groomed. Patrick immediately takes a slight dislike to him.

"You sure you've got the right one? Don't you want, like, some conservative gathering or whatever?"

The man frowns, shakes his head. "The - the - revolution one, yeah? My friend said - said I should get involved, I - I'm a scientist, kinda."

Patrick hums his curiosity, leaning against the doorframe of the graffiti-coated, urine scented building they call a town hall and looking the man up and down. "What kind of scientist?"

"Uh - like, a neuroscientist? Well, I'm - training, I guess, and - and I'm also minoring in robotics, so - so..." he fumbles, tailing off and wringing his hands together.

"Whoa. I think you're a little over-qualified," Patrick laughs, "come in, though. Sit down. Oh - hey, what was you name?"

"Uh - Wentz," the man says, "Pete. Call me Pete."

"Awesome, okay. Welcome to the revolution, Pete."

-

"Nah, it's not like that, mum, we need, like, substantial funds, you know?" he says to his phone, leaning back in his chair and sighing at the mess of papers on his desk. "We can't just keep protesting, we have to get through to the middle classes, the message needs to be nation wide. I dunno - we've just hit a kind of dead end. I'm not sure how to take it any further."

His mother makes a sympathetic noise, and Patrick decides not to work late tonight - he needs a cuddle on the couch. He's been compensating for his lack of relationship with overworking himself insane, heading straight to the office once his shift finishes and ploughing through finances, speech ideas, organised protest opportunities; but his stomach rumbles and his eyes droop and he'd like to get out of the tiny portion of hell they rent for far too much money per week.

It's for the best - it always has been. Patrick has been told he's delusional, and perhaps it's true - perhaps one has to be delusional to believe in revolution. It's happening, though - it's happening harder and faster than he could have hoped for, their own suburban pocket of revolution.

He tells her he'll be home soon, and she says she'll warm up some macaroni. He can't quite remember why he likes it, why the mention of it fills him with comfort - whatever it was, he's probably sold it. He decided many years ago that his own memories weren't worth the greater good. If only it didn't make him feel so empty.

As he's packing up, filing the papers carefully and turning off the lights, there's a knock at the door. "Come in," he calls, locking the cabinet and looking towards the end of the room. Dr. Hurley walks inside, shutting the door softly behind him. "Hey, doc. How can I help? Something wrong with that last memory?"

He's not entirely sure what he sold, but he thinks it was something to do with Isaac. He's not over it, not really - although the slight crush he's developing on the socially inept neuroscientist is helping. "No - I wondered if I could - I have an offer."

"Oh?" Patrick says, suppressing a yawn. If someone wants something endorsed at this hour, he'll tell them to kindly fuck off.

"You're - going places, Patrick," Hurley says, sitting down in the chair opposite his desk and watching him as he makes to sit too. "You're going to have a big impact on the world."

Patrick's not sure what to say to that, so he simply flashes a bashful smile and shrugs his shoulders.

"You know you are. But - you've been asking for funding, is that correct?"

"Yeah," Patrick sighs, "we're sort of relying on spare change, right now."

"What if I told you I could get you half a million dollars?"

Patrick's thoughts stop dead, and he looks up sharply. "I - what?"

"Would that be enough to get you off the ground?"

"I - uh -" Patrick stumbles, struggling to get his head around that kind of money. "You have half a million dollars?"

Hurley simply nods. "Surgery pays well, you know."

"But - but - you can't just _give_ me that, that's insane, I-"

"Here is my offer. Patrick, you sell me your memories every week. Why don't I simply give you a lump sum now, and in five years, you repay me. In memories, of course."

Patrick stares. Half a million. "Uh - how much of my, uh, memories? Just the good ones?"

"I'll take all of them off you, if that would be easier. You'd be effectively reset to where you are now. You'd be nineteen again. Not many people get that opportunity, Patrick."

"I dunno," he blurts, "what if - what if I'm not done in five years, what if I need that stuff -"

"I'd be willing to extend the loan as long as you see fit. I'm simply looking for a promise that you would, someday, repay me."

Patrick frowns. He wouldn't consider Hurley a friend - the man seems slippery, false, conniving. Patrick's overly optimistic at the best of times, but this whiffs of something rotten. He shakes his head. "I don't think that will be necessary. It's a generous offer, but - I think I'll pass."

"Fine," Hurley shrugs, "your loss. Do call me, if you change your mind."

Patrick watches him leave, his head still spinning with the thought of five hundred thousand dollars for his cause. No matter - a text from Pete pops up on his screen and all is soon forgotten.

-

_FAGGOT COMMIE SCUM_ are the words scrawled in charred red paint across the walls of the pharmacy above which his office sits.

The upper floor is a skeleton, smoke still billowing from the remains and the fire service crawling in and out of it like neon beetles. Everything he built was contained in that room. Patrick blames his tears on the smoke.

It's all gone. It's all over. Three years of his life and hundreds of his memories donated to the cause, for nothing. Ash crumbles under his feet, falls like snow through the air around him. He daren't move closer - he's not sure what he might do. He wants to cry, to scream, to put his fist through the wall, through the skull of whoever did this. Instead, he just stares.

People look at him and point, whisper that he's Patrick Stump, burned to the ground. Perhaps that man was right all those years ago - he's a stupid little shit, destined to flip burgers until he dies. He wipes his eyes on his sleeve and turns away from the ruins of his aspirations.

His fingers shake, coiled into fists. Beyond the heartbreak there is anger, palpable, pulsing. _It’s not fair._

Before he knows it, his phone is in his hand and he's dialling the number.

"Doctor Hurley? Yeah, about that offer. I've reconsidered."

 

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I know I'm a teeensy bit late (blame uhm...someone other than me, it totally wasn't my fault at all) but here's another installment of Clever Pete and his Not-So-Clever Conversations. 
> 
> For those of you who might like some holiday cheer, I'm also in theory doing the Peterick Christmas Challenge malarkey so look out for that, Elf Pete and Too-Tired-For-This-Elf-Crap Patrick will be hitting your screens whenever I feel panicked enough to write something down. 
> 
> Anyway! Enjoy! Comment! Tell me whose side you're on; Clever Pete or Big Fat Pat. I will be keeping score.

It's been four hours. Patrick's eyes writhe behind his eyelids. 

Pete's worried; he's never known someone to spend so long in a memory. A five minute memory can take less than thirty seconds to watch in real time - Pete wonders how much information Patrick's brain is taking in, whether it's simply going to fry itself with the sheer volume of new memories. He'd quite like Patrick to remain functional. 

His eyes have begun to burn from the glare of his computer screen; he stares at the three sections of memories contained in tiny icons, Patrick's life in pixels. Their physical forms sit on the desk in front of him, carefully labelled, the other pressed to Patrick's skull. 

Pete had only meant to check, to ensure that they worked, that they wouldn't kill Patrick the second he touched it to his temple. He'd printed only a small slice of the data, a random point picked from the third section of Patrick's life. He hadn't expected what he saw to change so much. 

He'd been dropped into Patrick's body, only to see himself staring back. To look at his own face had been disconcerting, his features vaguely unfamiliar, his body strange to see in three dimensions. He wore a suit, a tie, a smile. Patrick matched - it was strange to see the world through blue eyes, to feel his mouth move with plush pink lips and his white fingers twitch. 

"I do," he'd said. When he looked to the brown of his own younger, brighter eyes, they'd shone with tears. 

The room was small, yet filled with people. A woman with dark skin sniffed into her hand; Pete knows, in the back of his mind, that she was his mother. He doesn't think about why he doesn't know her. Pete - the Pete in front of him - sniffed, smiled, extended his hands. Patrick's met them in an instant. 

"With this ring," his own voice sounded, "I marry you. With my loving heart, with my willing body, and with my eternal soul." The cold of the ring slid over his finger. 

He felt Patrick sigh, felt him touch his finger to the gold band, felt the swell of adoration in Patrick's chest. It made his head spin, the force of it, the absolute truth of Patrick's love for the man opposite him. He'd felt it in himself, in the memories of sex and lazy cuddles, but to know with certainty that it's reciprocated, appreciated, is another kind of happiness entirely. 

Overwhelmed, he'd forced himself out of the memory and slammed the slip of metal back to the desk. All of a sudden, Patrick didn't seem quite so fake. 

Pete swivels in his chair and stares at Patrick, twitching where he lays. He misses what they had, he hates whoever took it. He wants to fall in love with Patrick again. 

Whether he's attracted to Patrick, he doesn't know. His past self clearly was, but his present self wavers. Patrick's everything Pete thought he didn't like - too confident, too obvious, too  _ fat  _ \- and yet somehow, it suits him. He's a handsome man, and the fact that he knows it only seems to make him more handsome. 

Pete wheels his chair closer to Patrick, watching his chest rise and fall, more rapidly than is healthy. The metal gleams at his forehead, held in place by the magnet in his skull. It's barbaric, really - but Pete can't imagine life without it, can't imagine a world where the contents of people's minds aren't for sale. He wonders what might happen if he ripped the wires from Patrick's head. 

Patrick's hand grabs at nothing, his face seizing up. Perhaps he's experiencing anger, or pain, or lust. Pete doesn't know how much he'll see, whether it's even possible for his mind to have stored every single day of his life, but he hopes, whatever Patrick sees, it's enough to make him see exactly what he's become. 

Because Pete could love Patrick. The impulsive kiss he pressed to Patrick's lips came from an instinctive place, a desperate place, but Pete's not yet sure if he regrets it. Patrick's mouth is plump, pink - Pete remembers thinking it in the scraps of the old life he's compiled. If Patrick could control himself, if he could promise Pete he'd take it slow, perhaps they could rebuild some of what they've lost. Pete ponders the thought as he plays with Patrick's fingers. 

He spends the next few minutes doing exactly what he does best - thinking, weighing out his options, exploring all possible conclusions. He knows Patrick likes him. Perhaps when Patrick wakes, he could put forward his findings. He can't deny, it would be nice to have someone to hold. Patrick looks like he could give a mean hug. 

Pete's about to turn away, his fingers slipping from Patrick's hand, when Patrick's eyes fly open. 

"Patrick," Pete says softly, watching the man gaze wildly around the room. His body remains motionless. Pete gives his forearm a shake. "It's me, it's okay." 

Patrick's eyes slam shut once more, his mouth dropping open and dragging in rasping breaths. He raises his arms and digs his fists into his eyes, then slides his fingers to tug violently at his hair. 

"Hey - don't do that -  _ stop _ ," Pete exclaims, grabbing at Patrick's wrists and pinning them to the surface of the padded chair. Patrick watches him with alarm, his chest heaving. 

"I - Pete," Patrick says, his hands relaxing in Pete's grasp, "Pete - it - it hurts." His face creases and he rolls his gaze away from Pete, a noise of pain squeezed from his throat. 

"What hurts," Pete says, calm and collected although he might not feel it. 

"My - brain," Patrick groans, turning his head from side to side as if to shrug the pain away. Pete lets go of Patrick's hands and he props himself up on one elbow, massaging his brow with his fingertips. "God, I can't - I can't think, it's - ugh." 

Pete presses the button on the side of the chair and it slides Patrick into a sitting position, where he slumps with his head in his hands. 

"It's too much," he says weakly, "it's - I can't -" 

"You might need some time to - re-calibrate," Pete offers, placing a palm on Patrick's shoulder. "Just breathe, relax." 

"How - how long?" Patrick says, dragging his fingers down his face and turning his gaze to Pete. 

"Four and a half hours," Pete replies.

"Okay," he nods, "fuck, man. I think I'm gonna cry," he says with a laugh, but his mouth wobbles and his hands fly to catch the onslaught of tears that fall from his eyes. Pete watches uselessly, his mind searching for something helpful to say, but his bedside manner deserts him and he's left rubbing Patrick's shoulder pathetically. 

"That's - okay," Pete says, awkward and forced, but when he reaches for Patrick's hand, Patrick holds tight, wiping at his eyes and blinking rapidly until no more tears fall. "You're bound to be overwhelmed." 

Patrick nods slightly, his eyes flicking to Pete. "I met you," he says, "you - you were a neuroscientist, you came to the meetings." 

"What meetings?" Pete asks, "did - did I say where I studied?"

"I - uh..." Patrick stumbles, confusion clouding his gaze. "I don't remember," he finishes, the quirk of tears still running through his voice. "I'm sorry, Pete, I don't - I can't -" 

"It's okay," Pete sighs, only a little disappointed, "don't worry, perhaps it'll come back to you. Just - tell me what you do remember." 

"Uh," Patrick starts, "I - I liked you, I - had a crush on you," he says, looking a little sheepish. "You - I don't know. You were smart. I liked it." 

"You said we met at a meeting? A meeting for what, exactly?" 

"For - for the revolution," Patrick says. "I - I was a revolutionary." 

Pete stares. "You - what?" 

"I wanted to start a revolution, I was angry, I was ready to do something about it," he says rapidly, "I made speeches, I - it was right.  _ I  _ was right." 

"Oh my god," Pete says, "so - you weren't - like  _ this _ ?" He gestures to Patrick's current form - the greedy, lecherous politician wringing the population of its free will. Patrick shakes his head. 

"I was good," he says quietly. "I was a good person. I - helped people. I dunno, I was - I'd be ashamed. Of - of what I am now. Should I? Be ashamed?" 

Pete's of half a mind to give him a slap and tell him that of course he should be ashamed, he's ripped the city to shreds and cashed in on the pieces; but the man sitting in front of him isn't the same man that got up on that stage and announced his candidacy. That man is dead and buried.  _ This  _ man is someone entirely new. 

"I think you've done some shameful things," Pete says, and Patrick's eyes crack with sadness, "but - I think he'd be proud that you're fighting back. You haven't let them win." 

"Do you think I could still be - like, go back to being him?" Patrick's gaze lightens minutely as he watches Pete with expectation. 

Pete hesitates to answer. He's not sure it's possible that either of them will ever be the same again. Patrick eventually looks away. 

"Alright," he nods. His hand loosens its grip, but Pete holds on tight. 

"Hey - that doesn't mean you can't be - good, y'know? Just because you're not him, doesn't mean we can't -  I won't - I don't know," Pete tails off. Patrick's eyes flick back to him, his eyebrows rising towards his hairline. "Look - about what I did, I - just - I don't know. I saw us getting married, and I felt, like - how much you genuinely loved me and - I kind of want that back. Maybe it was a mistake, but - I don't know." 

"No!" Patrick blurts, "Not a mistake, I - well, you know I like you, and I liked - what you did, so - so - yeah." His hand shifts in Pete's grasp. 

Pete can feel Patrick's breath on his face. They should wait until this is over, until Patrick knows his own life, until they're in a position to control their own lives, and yet Pete has a strange feeling that perhaps, by then, it'll be too late. 

"I did - like you," Patrick continues to babble, "I wasn't creepy, I - we just texted, we hadn't even kissed, I didn't _harass_ you, I wasn't - I didn't -" 

If only to shut Patrick up, Pete kisses him. 

Reality feels so different to memory - the colours are unbrightened, the edges sharp, untainted with rosy vignette. Patrick's lips are damp with saliva, his movements lagging, clumsy, until Pete lets his mouth part for Patrick's tongue. 

With a shift of his head, Patrick seems to collect himself, his hand sliding to Pete's jaw and suddenly, it's so much better than a memory, real and happening and Pete doesn't want to miss a second of it. 

He pulls Patrick closer and slides a hand into Patrick's hair, remembering the love Patrick had felt for him and chasing after it with each graze of his mouth to Patrick's. The sweet sounds of their lips ring in Pete's ears. 

Pete may not remember his teenage years, but he feels as if he's fifteen again when they break apart and look shyly away from one another, their lips twitching into bashful smiles. Pete wipes at his mouth with the tips of his fingers and Patrick's hands knot themselves together in his lap. 

"So - so -" Patrick starts, clearly unable to keep his mouth from running, "is this - are we -" 

"I don't know," Pete says, "I - maybe we could just - take it slow?" Their future is murky - Patrick could still, theoretically, become President of the United States. Pete doesn't hear wedding bells just yet. 

Patrick nods quickly. "Of course. Slow. Yeah, that's sensible. I can do that." 

"And - I don't know," Pete adds, "monogamy would be good." He can't quite get the countless stories of Stump shagging yet another petite blonde out of his head. 

"Of course," Patrick says, "I think I'm ready to do that, like - be boyfriend material, I can - I can buy you flowers, or - or a Lamborghini, whatever you want." 

"Sure," Pete grins, brightening at the realisation that Patrick is in fact a billionaire, for now, at least. "Or - no, no, this isn't about money, I - just, don't be an ass." 

"I can do that!" Patrick grins, " _ And _ I have a huge cock!" 

Pete snorts, shoving Patrick in the shoulder and shaking his head. "I changed my mind, you ruined it." 

"It's a valid virtue!" Patrick protests, "I can satisfy you, Pete! And - eating ass is basically the same as eating pussy, right?" 

Pete blinks at him. "I - honestly don't know," he says, "but - like, what about the future? Like, we have no idea what's going to happen in the next few hours, let alone the next few months?" 

"Y'know, you don't always have to think about the future," Patrick reasons, taking Pete by the wrist and tugging him closer. "We could just - live in the moment."

Pete's eyes dart to Patrick's lips. His disgust has all but vanished - he wonders what it might be like to be held by Patrick, to snuggle against his belly and feel those broad shoulders framing him. 

"This is a love story," Patrick tells him, "like - they tried to keep us apart, but they couldn't. We're, like, meant for each other." 

Pete raises an eyebrow. "I thought we agreed to take it slow." 

"Oh - yeah," Patrick grins, "I meant - y'know, this is all physical and I could take it or leave it but you're here so we may as well give it a go."

"Ass," Pete smiles, but he leans to kiss Patrick once more, feeling Patrick's hand slide to his waist. "But - what else did you see? Your childhood?" 

"Yeah," Patrick nods, his breath hot over Pete's face, "I - I was poor. I was this poor kid who wanted to change the world. It's like having two lives." He goes to kiss Pete again, but Pete moves away. 

"What did you see?" 

Patrick shrugs. "Lots of stuff. A lot of it was kind of blurred. I dunno, I don't remember." 

"Did you get any answers? About, like, our memories?" Pete asks, his eyes flicking between Patrick's. 

Patrick purses his lips and shakes his head. "I think it's - it'll come up later on. But - can we go back to kissing?" He cups Pete's jaw in his hand and brings their mouths together, taking Pete's bottom lip between his own. It's soft, gentle - but it's not quite right. 

Pete pushes him back. "Are you sure? There wasn't even a hint of what happened?" 

"No, it just ended with a meeting. Like, about the revolution. See, I was a good person! That woman was talking crap. Oh, hey, you were right about all my memories being faked. I wonder how they did that? Maybe we’ll never know." He goes for another kiss. Pete pushes his chair back, a sinking feeling in his chest. 

"Patrick," he sighs, "what did you see?" 

"Nothing!" Patrick protests, "it was another life! I don't even really remember, it was confusing,  _ I'm  _ confused, I -" 

"Patrick!" Pete barks, regretting the kiss more and more with each passing second. "Tell me, right now." 

Patrick lets out a slow breath and runs a hand through his hair. "I - Okay. Could you please just - I want this to happen so bad, I - I really like you - promise me that this won't affect us?" 

"I'm not promising anything," Pete snarls, folding his arms. "Tell me what the fuck you did." 

Patrick's mouth wobbles and Pete swears he'll throttle Patrick if he cries again, but instead, Patrick pulls himself together, sniffing and looking Pete straight in the face. "I made a deal with Hurley. Half a million dollars for all my memories." 

Pete's gaze dulls. It's both a complete shock and totally predictable - this is Patrick Stump. Whatever his cause, his eyes are taped with dollar signs. His greed transcends lifetimes. Pete looks away. 

"I said no! I told him no - at first," Patrick protests, "I swear, I wasn't gonna accept the offer, but - but then he - well, someone - burnt my office down. Everything I'd worked for, Pete, don't tell me you wouldn't do something drastic if this office got destroyed?" 

"So what exactly do you think happened to my memories?" Pete asks acidly, "How do you think I got drawn into this?! It's you, Patrick! You fucked my life up then, and you've come back and done it again now!" 

"You don't know that! We don't know the whole story!" 

"We'll never know the whole story!" Pete shouts, "Even if you watch all of it! Even if we find all my memories! We're never ever going to know the truth of what happened to us, the truth of who we are, and it's because of you!" 

Patrick twitches in the chair, his eyes wide and threatening tears. "It's not!" he says weakly, "I need to watch the rest, you're not being fair -" 

" _ I'm _ not being fair? I was left with  _ nothing _ !" Pete yells, standing and shoving his chair towards his desk. "You're a billionaire! You're set for president! Who's to say you didn't get carried away? Sell my memories too? You're power hungry, Patrick! You always have been!" 

"You were saying I was a good person a minute ago! I was fighting for what’s right!” 

"And look at yourself now," Pete scathes. "You're a greedy bastard who doesn't give a shit about who you hurt. I thought you might have been different - I thought you  _ could  _ be different but you're just the same and I'm sorry I thought you could change.  _ And  _ you thought you could lie to me! You thought you could - fucking, keep that from me just so I might let you fuck me!" 

"That's not true! I like you, Pete, I really do, I just knew you'd - you'd do  _ this _ ." 

"What?! Tell you the truth?!" Pete bellows. Then he reaches for the memories on the desk. "Take these," he growls, throwing them towards Patrick, "and get the fuck out." 

Patrick picks the memories off his body and closes his fist around them. "I was a good person," he says, "and - I'm not a monster. I'm just - a man, I guess."

It's bullshit, and Pete rolls his eyes at Patrick, sitting down in his chair and turning back to his desk. "Whatever. Just leave me alone."  

"What about Hurley? Do I call the police? Do I just - carry on?" 

"You're a grown man. Decide for yourself." 

"I'll - I'll call and tell you what I see." 

"Put it in a text, Patrick."

Patrick’s footsteps track to the door, where they pause for a few seconds. 

“Pete?” 

Pete looks reluctantly towards Patrick’s dishevelled form. 

“What did you see? Before you - you kissed me?” 

Pete sighs. “I saw the wedding.” 

“And - you saw that I’m not a liar?” 

“Yeah, I did,” Pete says flatly. “I also saw my mother. I don’t even know her, because of you.” 

Patrick’s face falls. “I’m so sorry, Pete.” 

“Thanks.” 

Patrick leaves. 

-

  
  
  
  



	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! It is I, bringer of bullshit! Here's another meaty chapter for you to climb into bed with, do let me know how it performs. 
> 
> Also, sorry.

"Hey - Patrick?" Pete says as the people around them begin to shuffle their papers and place their briefcases on the table, "could I see you for a second?" 

"Of course," Patrick nods, but there's worry brewing in his chest. Pete's eyes are nervous, his hands tremble as he checks his phone. They can't afford to lose another core member - they're only just gaining back the ground they lost with the fire. 

Patrick bids everyone goodbye as they file from the room. It's small, cramped, the only office space available at such short notice, but Patrick's confident they'll be able to find somewhere bigger once Hurley's funds come through. He shuts the door when the room is empty and turns back to Pete, who shifts from foot to foot. 

"Pete," Patrick starts with a sigh, "I promise things are gonna look up soon, we've just had a minor setback, if you could just stick with it for a couple more weeks, you'll see a change, I swear." 

Pete's brows knit into a frown. "Uh - I'm not leaving," he says. "I'm invested in this, I'm here for the long run." 

"Oh," Patrick says, relief flooding through his lungs. Meetings without Pete would've made life slightly more shitty. "So - what do you wanna talk about?"

"Uh," Pete fumbles, his mouth twitching and his hands tying themselves in knots. "I kind of wondered if you wanted to, like, get coffee sometime?" 

Patrick blinks. Romance had become something secondary, a distraction, but now he feels the butterflies, misses the excitement of flirting and the rush of falling in love. He likes Pete, likes his shy intelligence and calm logic. 

"It's okay if you don't want to," Pete blurts once Patrick's remained silent for a few seconds too long, "I get that you're busy with, like, changing the world and stuff, and I know we, like, work together so it might be weird, but I just thought I'd - check." 

"Changing the world can wait," Patrick grins, "I'd love to go for coffee with you." 

-

The material of Patrick's coat is disappointingly unabsorbent as he wipes his eyes on it, leaving snotty smudges along the sleeves. Rain spatters the car window, pushed along it in weeping streams. Patrick's beginning to realise he's a romantic at heart - all he wants is to shower Pete in flowers and chocolates and kisses. Instead, he's the villain once again. 

He watches the second memory in short bursts, snippets of his life sailing past as he nears his lonely mansion. He wonders if his past self knew what damage he'd do, what an awful sin he was committing by making such a deal with the devil. Above all, Patrick wonders if it matters what he did, if it'll ever matter. 

He'll never be that Patrick again. He's barely even met that Patrick. Those were not his actions - he wishes Pete would judge him on who he is now. But his mansion looms in the distance and his supercar speeds towards it whilst the poor starve and the homeless freeze - perhaps the Patrick he is now deserves an even more harsh judgement.

He cries like a child until the car pulls into the drive. He taps  _ mum _ on his phone several times, listening to the flat dial tone - it never rings. He supposes if his life is a fake, then his mother is, too. He wonders how many of his friends like him. Joe doesn't pick up, either. Money apparently can't buy him someone to talk to. 

The rain soaks him as he drags himself to his front door, masking the tears down his face but not the redness of his eyes. Pete should have been a mistake, a minor detail in his path to greatness - now it seems that Pete  _ is _ his path. He realises he wouldn't give a shit about the presidency if Pete was the alternative. 

He'd come so close. Perhaps they could have run away, started a new life together, one in which money was no object and companionship was the most valuable currency. His mansion is cold, dark, empty - he imagines them sharing a log cabin in the Alps, curled up by the fire or snuggled in bed. He wonders if his past self ever had that, and what a fool he must have been to give it up. 

The couch is as close to a human body as he can get, and he sinks into it, pushing his soaked skull to the cushions as if he can block out the world. He supposes he can, really - the memories are still clasped in his hands, ready to take him from one disappointment to the next. He rolls over slowly and raises one to his forehead, bracing himself. 

-

"Babe, are you planning on taking this out any time soon?" Pete's in a bathrobe, wandering towards Patrick's tiny oven and peering into it. "I don't mean to be pedantic but I'd rather not eat charcoal." 

"It's better when it's crisp!" Patrick protests, but stomps towards the oven and peers at the slowly browning lasagne. "I was about to take it out, anyway." 

"Sure you were," Pete grins, sitting down at Patrick's barely-laid kitchen table and watching him expectantly. "Are we not eating in front of the TV?" 

"Mum says that's bad," Patrick hums, digging the fish slice into the corner of the lasagne which, okay, might have benefitted from a few minutes less in the oven. "Also, I kind of need to talk to you." 

"Are you breaking up with me," Pete says, his mouth smiling but his eyes flashing with worry. "Because I'd like some dinner first." 

"I only made this to taunt you. Get out of my house, pig." 

Pete laughs, grabbing for the plate Patrick hands him and reaching back to dig cutlery out of the drawer. "Looks lovely." 

"What can I say, I'm wasted in politics," Patrick sighs. "Anyway, I - kind of do need to talk to you. And it's - sort of, I dunno. Serious, I guess." 

Pete eyes him from across the table, a slice of pepper hanging from his fork. "Okay," he says warily. "How freaked out do I need to be?" 

"Uh - not sure," Patrick says truthfully. "It's not about us. Like, we're great. Or at least, I think we are. Anyway, I - sort of have a problem." 

The nervousness emanating from Pete is almost unbearable - he chews slowly, his hands in his lap, where Patrick knows they're squeezed tightly around one another. 

"You know when the office burnt down?" Patrick starts, and Pete nods quickly. "I was in a bad place, for like, ages. And then suddenly, stuff started to take off?" 

"Are you a prostitute?" Pete blurts suddenly, and Patrick can't help but laugh. 

"No! No, nothing like that. I wouldn't've fucked you without telling you that, I'm not that much of a jerk. Anyway - you know Dr. Hurley?" Patrick asks. 

"Yeah, I know  _ of  _ him. He's super fucking weird." 

"So - basically, he offered me half a million dollars if I promised to give him all my memories." Even as Patrick says it, he knows the weight of it, the impact of this one, tiny decision on the rest of his life and all those in it. 

"And - you took it," Pete says slowly. "You took the fucking money." 

Patrick nods. Pete's eyes flash with something that makes Patrick's chest hurt. "I know it was stupid. I was desperate." 

"It was  _ so _ stupid," Pete spits, dropping his fork to the plate with a clatter. "Why in fuck's name did you think it'd be a viable option?!"

"I was selling memories every week anyway!" Patrick protests, "It was the only way we'd possibly get anywhere, and at the time, it seemed like a great idea. Now I realise it was - well, dumb as hell, and I thought you deserved to know, and - I think I need your help." 

Pete's face softens slightly. "Thanks for not waiting ten years to tell me, I guess," he says, "and I will help you as soon as I've stopped being mad at you." 

"I really am sorry," Patrick says, and he means it. "I just realised over the past couple months that maybe I don't wanna forget everything."

"Well - okay, the office burned down like, four months ago. We've used maybe ten thousand so far. Keep the rest of the money to one side and we'll save up the rest," Pete says. "I've got savings if you want a loan, and I'm sure the rest of the team could lend you some cash. Maybe give him an extra five thousand interest. I don't see how he could refuse that." 

Some of the worry sitting on Patrick's chest dissipates on seeing the reassurance in Pete's eyes. "Are you sure?" 

"Yeah," Pete shrugs. "Look, we'll sit down tomorrow and work out where we'll get the money from, but ten grand is peanuts. You've nothing to worry about, Patrick." 

Pete's kindness sends butterflies to Patrick's stomach. "Thanks," he says, "thank you so much." 

"Now eat the lasagne," Pete tells him, gesturing to Patrick's plate with his fork. "Sold your damn memories, what are you like..." 

-

"This place is fucking nasty," Pete remarks as they push open the door to Dr. Hurley's surgery. "I can't believe you used to sell this guy your stuff." 

"He was the only one who'd operate on someone underage," Patrick mumbles, avoiding the flash of shock across Pete's face. 

"Babe..." Pete starts, but Patrick's already approaching the receptionist. 

"Hey - uh, is Dr. Hurley in? We haven't booked, we just want two minutes with him." 

The receptionist trails his bored gaze to Patrick's face. "Uh - yeah. You can see him once his next patient comes out." 

"Cool. Okay," Patrick says awkwardly. "We'll just - sit down." 

Pete looks at the seats as if sitting one one might give him a rare disease, but Patrick tugs him down anyway, lacing their fingers firmly together. "This is so shady," Pete hisses, as if Patrick isn't nervous enough. 

"Not helping," Patrick retorts, his eyes trained on the shadowed door at the end of the hallway. Being in this very waiting room is conjuring dark memories. 

"I'm coming in with you," Pete tells him. 

"No you're not. I can do this by myself." 

"I'm aware of that,  _ I _ don't wanna be left out here," Pete says, "it's creepy." 

"Again, not helping." 

"Okay, no," Pete says, sitting up a little and pursing his lips. "We've got five hundred and twenty thousand dollars to give him. We're making him rich. It'll be fine." He seems to be talking solely to himself, but he gives Patrick's fingers a squeeze. 

"Yeah, it'll be fine," Patrick nods. "Absolutely fine." 

The door at the end of the corridor opens, and a child walks out. She's perhaps twelve, her hair tied in pigtails. There's a white plaster on the side of her head. Patrick feels Pete tense beside him. 

"Ah, Patrick," a voice calls from within the room. "It's been a while!" 

Patrick casts a final glance at Pete before he gets to his feet, letting go of Pete's hand. True to his word, Pete's close behind him, fingers grazing Patrick's forearm as they venture towards the door. 

The surgery is bright yet somehow still dingy, the yellowing lights flickering every few seconds. It's not as Patrick remembers, but Hurley is, his beetle eyes boring into Patrick as he steps through the door and then snapping to Pete. "Moral support?" he asks lightly. 

"Something like that," Pete hisses. He stays by the door as Patrick goes to sit in the chair in front of Hurley. 

"We're here about the - deal. Thing," Patrick says, taking the envelope from his pocket. "I don't want to do it anymore." 

Hurley laughs slightly. "What do you mean? You signed a contract." 

"I know," Patrick swallows, "but - I'm here to pay you back. With interest. I've decided my memories are more important." 

"Ah," Hurley hums, "so this is  _ his _ influence?" He jerks his thumb at Pete. 

"No," Patrick interjects, "I knew it was the wrong decision. A kind offer, but the wrong decision for me. Here's five hundred and twenty thousand dollars." He holds out the envelope. 

"And how long before you're back here again, begging me to take your mind?" Hurley scathes, ignoring Patrick's outstretched arm. 

"Never again," Pete snaps, and Patrick purses his lips. 

"Yeah, I'm doing okay, now," Patrick says, "I appreciate what you did for me, and it's thanks to you I'm in this position. Please, just - take back your money. I'm sorry for wasting your time." 

Finally, Hurley snatches the envelope from Patrick's hand with a growl. "Alright," he says, "fine. Make sure I never see you or Wentz again. Remember - I know where you live." 

"Okay," Patrick says, standing slowly and backing towards the door. "Thank you for your time." 

Hurley doesn't look at him. Pete grabs his hand and drags Patrick out the door, not stopping until they're in the sunshine once again. 

"Well - that was interesting," Patrick says, breathing a laugh as Pete winds their arms together. "He's gonna be okay, right?" 

Pete doesn't respond. He's got that look of worry in his eyes, the one that says something's wrong, something's really wrong. 

"Honey?" Patrick says, "You okay?"

"Yeah," Pete nods, "just - wondering how he knew my name." 

-

Patrick wakes to the same old life. It's stopped raining, now, and the night is clear, stars glittering through the window. Patrick swallows, sits himself up, contemplates what he's just seen. 

He told Pete. He paid Hurley back. Whatever happened may not have been his fault. He buries his face in his hands and rubs hard at his eyes, the new memories whirring around his skull, of friends and family and conversations he'll never truly know. It's too much and not enough, and he itches both for his phone and the final memory in his hand. Pete should know, Pete should know now - but what if there's more? 

Pete was right - Pete seems to be right about a lot of things - there's always more to it, and Patrick can't dash Pete's hopes any longer. He wants to see his mother again, to feel her arms around him and her assurances in his ear, to live as this Other Patrick, this free spirit, this good man. 

He presses the next memory to his skull and falls back to the couch.

-

"What'cha workin' on," Patrick asks as he watches Pete squint at the screen of his laptop. He sinks his teeth into an apple, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "'S getting late." 

"I'm coming," Pete says, his lips barely moving. "Just give me a few more minutes." 

"You said that last night," Patrick frowns. "Are you onto something?" 

"Nearly." 

"Will you solve it in the next half hour?" 

"Maybe." 

"Come on, honey, come to bed," Patrick says. His own eyes sting from the bright light of the screen, his limbs tired from today's march and his voice in tatters. 

"Go without me." 

Patrick lets out a sigh. Pete is impossible to argue with - he might as well give up now. "Okay. Night," he says, leaning to peck a kiss to Pete's cheek. He smiles when Pete turns his head and seals their lips together, brief but heartfelt. "Love you." 

"Love you too," Pete says with a grin, before turning back to his work. Patrick goes to bed smiling. 

His sleep is short-lived. He thinks the clock reads three twenty four when he's jolted awake by eager hands and hasty whispers, the lights suddenly blinding. 

"Patrick!" Pete says, "Patrick, wake up!" 

"What?" Patrick mumbles, "What's happened? Are you okay?" 

Pete's face is lit with childlike excitement when Patrick blinks the blur from his eyes. "Yeah, I just - I think I just changed the world, like, a little bit," he babbles, his hands still clutching Patrick's shoulder. 

"Eh?" Patrick says, propping himself up on his elbows, "Have you been working all this time?" 

"Yeah, yeah, I thought I might be onto something, and I was! You know that brain delivery I got the other day?" 

"Uh - it was horrifying, yeah," Patrick says, his sluggish mind struggling to keep up, "what about it?"

"And you know I was looking at those micro-electrodes?" 

"Uh..."

"And you know when I trained those rats to see the pink bowl when it's feeding time?"

"Ugh, yes." 

"So, basically, I removed the rat's memories, then showed them the bowl, and they didn't do anything - but then I used the micro electrodes to stimulate the neocortex in half the rats, and the half that were stimulated  _ recognised the bowl. _ " 

"Uh...so...so..."

"I reversed it." 

"Holy shit." 

"I know!" Pete squeals, jumping on Patrick and hugging him like a koala hugs a tree trunk. "Do you know what this means?! If this could be applied to humans, it could improve the lives of millions! Like, this will take years to perfect and years more to, like, circulate, and it might nor even work with bigger memories or whatever, but, I dunno, I just feel like it's something massive!"

"Holy shit, honey," Patrick says, wrapping his arms around Pete and feeling him smile against Patrick's neck. "I'm not awake enough to celebrate properly, but tomorrow, we'll open that champagne. You're a genius, Pete." 

"I'm fucking exhausted," Pete laughs. 

"Get some pyjamas on," Patrick tells him, "and come pass out with me." 

"Okay," Pete says, dropping a kiss to Patrick's lips before climbing off the bed and unbuttoning his shirt. Patrick watches appreciatively, his mind struggling between comprehending what Pete may have achieved and staring at his ass. "There's some rats in the office, by the way." 

"Good," Patrick sighs, rolling over to watch Pete wander into the bathroom. 

"How did the march go?" he asks, once he's scrubbed at his face and stripped to his boxers. 

"Oh - fine," Patrick says, waving a hand. "No-one shot at us, so that's something." He regrets it as soon as he says it - he knows how Pete worries. 

"God, please be careful," Pete says, "I can't believe I let you do that." 

"I let you blow up rats," Patrick points out. 

"True," Pete replies, crawling into bed beside Patrick. "We're such a dream couple. We're the revolution, 'Trick," he sighs as he wraps his arms around Patrick and nuzzles into Patrick's chest. 

"Yeah we are," Patrick purrs, pressing a kiss to the top of Pete's head. "We're unstoppable." 

-

_ "...will be stopped at all costs. The name of their leader is not known but he is believed to be a white man in his early twenties, approximately five foot three inches tall."  _

"Bastards," Patrick spits, "I'm five four." 

Pete glares from across the table, gesturing at the tablet propped in front of them. "This is fucking serious, Patrick, what are we gonna do? This doesn't even feed into your  _ get on national news _ plan, this is obscure local at best. They're pushing us down, and they're onto us." 

Patrick shrugs. "I've fought police before." 

"Have you fought the US Army?"

Patrick scowls. "They're not gonna massacre us. They don't have the balls." 

"This isn't a fucking brawl, Patrick, they have tanks! Armoured fucking tanks!" Pete cries. He looks as close to tears as Patrick's ever seen him. It makes Patrick's chest ache. 

"Okay," he concedes, "alright. Maybe we should back off." 

The group around the table murmur to one another. They’re all capable, all passionate - but Patrick clasps the reins tight in his hands. 

“We need to break out of Wilmette. Get across the borders, spread the message,” a girl - Amy - says. “They’re not taking us seriously right now.” 

“Unless we go legit,” Toby suggests, “Patrick could get Village President easy - then we push for District Governor.” 

“But that could take years,” Pete says.

“Decades, probably,” Toby adds helpfully.

“Then it’s not an option,” Pete retorts. Patrick wants so badly to take his hand. “None of us are cut out for office, anyway.” 

“I think Patrick is,” another pipes up, “people know his face, he’s the figurehead.” 

Patrick jumps to soothe the tensions in the room. “I’m getting a bit old for this, though. Any one of you could do just as good a job.” 

Toby snorts. “Come on, Patrick, you  _ know  _ that’s bullshit. You’re twenty-four, not fifty-four.” 

“Okay,” Patrick concedes, “we’re not getting anywhere with this. Let’s just - put a pin in that and come back to it next week.” 

The rest of the meeting drags. Pete barely says a word, his face arranged into a neat frown that says Patrick will get an earful of it when everyone’s left. 

He’s right. Once they’re alone, Pete rounds on him, his voice angry but his eyes sad. “When are you gonna stop?”

Patrick looks at him steadily. He’s been wondering the same thing for a while, now. “I don’t know. Soon.” 

“That’s not good enough. When are our lives gonna start?” 

“I can tone it down,” Patrick tries, “I just - don’t wanna leave this until it’s strong enough to stand up without me, you know?” 

“I get that. But I’m nearly thirty, and we still live in that gross apartment eating ready meals every night. I wanna grow up!” 

“Lots of people don’t settle down ‘til they’re in their forties,” Patrick points out. 

This is apparently not the right thing to say. Pete’s head drops to his hands, and he presses his fingers deep into his eye sockets. “But I don’t  _ want  _ to wait until I’m forty!” he snaps, “I’ve found someone I wanna be with for the rest of my life, I don’t wanna spend the next decade wondering each night if they’re gonna make it home!” 

“But if I go into office -” 

“You’re going to get shot,” Pete spits. “I want  _ safety!  _ I want a house with no graffiti on it, I want a view and a dog and an open fire. Don’t you want that too?” 

“Yeah,” Patrick nods, “just maybe not yet.” 

Pete sighs deeply. “We gotta talk about this some more. Because this isn’t working for me. I want a family, Patrick, you’ve always known that about me.” 

“I want one too,” Patrick says, “I really do. We’ll talk at home, yeah?” 

Pete nods. “We’d better.” 

-

“Last one?”

“Last one,” Patrick nods, pulling on his steel-toed boots and leather gloves. Their kitchen is littered with boxes, the surfaces blank and odd-looking. “Then off to Seattle.” 

“This is the last time I’ll have to nag you to eat breakfast,” Pete says wistfully, waving the box of cereal at Patrick. “Eat some breakfast.” 

“And this is the last time I’ll have to tell you I’m  _ fine, _ ” Patrick replies, getting to his feet and placing his hands on Pete’s waist. “I’ll text you when I’m done. Should be home before four.” 

“Okay,” Pete says, bouncing the baby in his arms, “please be careful.” 

“Last time you get to tell me that, too. Say  _ bye _ to daddy,” Patrick says, waving Max’s hand gently.

“No - I thought we agreed  _ I’m  _ daddy. You’re pa, ‘cause it’s like Patrick.” 

“Why do I have to be the weird one?” Patrick protests. “Can’t I just be  _ dad _ ?” 

“That’s too similar, it’ll confuse him.” 

“He doesn’t know his ass from his elbow, does it really matter?” 

“Now’s not the time,” Pete says, “go change the world.

Patrick grins. “I’ll see you soon,” he says, leaning to peck the baby’s head before pressing a kiss to Pete’s lips. Pete kisses back hard, like he always does before Patrick leaves. “Love you.” 

“Be careful,” Pete tells him.

Patrick just laughs. 

-

The pain is unimaginable.

It spreads from his shoulder, a point of extreme, excruciating detail, and his vision buckles under it, splitting into slices of colour and sound. The sky is grey above him, interrupted by shadowed figures. Patrick can hear screams from somewhere behind him. “I think I’ve been shot.” 

“I think you have, too,” someone says, “okay, uh - we’re gonna get you out of here, alright?” 

It sounds like a marvellous plan, and Patrick tells them so. 

“Isn’t his husband a doctor?” 

“Scientist,” Patrick corrects. “He does science.” 

“Close enough. Can you stand?” 

“Yep,” Patrick says, but his body remains firmly glued to the ground. The pain seems to have morphed into a strange buzzing noise, tickling him from the inside. A round of bullets sprays over the crowds. 

The next thing he knows, he’s being lifted, floating through the air like a balloon. Time melts into something easier to swallow, the world shifting past and air rushing over him as a door opens in front of him. He wonders if it’s heaven.

“What happened?” Pete’s voice asks. It  _ must  _ be heaven.

“They open-fired.” 

Pete remains silent. Patrick tries to move his hands - the buzzing just gets a little louder. He wonders if Pete would lay with him, if he asked. 

Hands begin to open his shirt, and Patrick knows it’s Pete. “Hey, honey,” he slurs, “wanna make another baby?”

“Stop talking. I’m going to give you an injection for the pain, and then I’m going to remove the bullet.” 

“Where’s Max?” 

“He’s asleep. Relax, baby, okay?”

Patrick nods. The world begins to grow fur. Patrick’s not sure how much time has passed before the the door is blow off its hinges and the shouting begins. A gunshot sounds, but he can still hear Pete’s voice. A baby screams in the distance.

-

When Patrick wakes, everything’s shifted.

He’s in the same house, on the same couch, in the same skin - but he’s not the same man. So much more than his life has been taken from him - his future, his family has been stolen, too. 

Pete is the only person he wants to talk to. He scrambles for his phone, sliding his hands into his pockets and the creases of the couch, under the coffee table and the hem of the rug. 

"Looking for something?” Hurley’s voice asks.

Patrick whips around - Hurley sits at the desk, Patrick’s phone clasped in his hand. Before Patrick can stop him, he snaps it in half. 

“The show’s over, Patrick,” he says. The doors are closed. A gun sits in front of Hurley, a finger-twitch away. 

Patrick should be terrified. He should be preparing to accept his fate, crying for his child. Instead, he feels immeasurable, insurmountable, invincible anger. 

  
  
  



	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Thank you all so much for sticking with this for so long - and here we are, finally, the last chapter. Or - well, an ending of sorts. There will be an epilogue out in the next few days so keep an eye out for that - it might answer some of the questions that aren't tied up right now. 
> 
> This has been such a fun fic to write and I will miss it so much, and I can only hope you guys have enjoyed it even half as much as I have. Let me know what you think - and I'll see you on the other side xx

The screen burns Pete's eyes. He's been staring for too long, the cursor blinking at him underneath Joanna's name, the words to tell her, to confess his sins and remove himself from her life like a tumour ringing in the tips of his fingers. He can't go on with his life, can't pretend he's the same man who cut the ribbon on the door with her. He's dead weight - he longs to be somewhere else. 

He could have his things packed in an hour. He could be on the road by sundown. He could forget everything, begin again. He could flee someplace where no-one in a hundred miles has heard the name Patrick Stump. 

_ I have something to confess, _ he types slowly,  _ it was all true. I was married to him. He sold me out. I'm going away, now. Don't know if I'll come back. Robert will finish his exams soon - he can take my place. I'm sorry for everything.  _

It's not enough - it's poor thanks for a short lifetime of friendship, but Pete's not sure what else he can say, apart from perhaps  _ thank you. _ She signed all the papers, she owns the building - all she'll have to do is strike his name from the door. 

The slip of metal to the side of the tablet glares. He hasn't watched it, he's terrified to. He wonders if Patrick's watched the rest, if he'll notice what's missing - but Pete can't bring himself to care. He'd taken the last piece, the final slice of Patrick's life because he knew exactly what it must contain. Despite everything, Pete can't bear the thought of Patrick seeing him like that. 

It's not love. It can't be - Patrick's proved himself monstrous time and time again. He's the reason Pete has no memories, he's the reason Pete lost his whole life. And yet it seems Patrick was his whole life. The wedding plays itself in Pete's head over and over, the overwhelming love that Patrick had felt for him mirrored on his own face. 

His fingers hovers over the send icon - then drops away, heading instead for the memory. He might as well get it over with. 

He sits where Patrick sat, the distant feeling of his warmth embedded in the leather. The future is as murky as the sky - the past sits squarely in his palm. His eyes burn with something other than the light. 

Setting his jaw and laying back, he presses the memory to his temple.

-

Patrick's body is still. 

He stares at a speck of lint on the floor - it dances with each ebb of draught, curling in the air. His wrists ache with the cut of cuffs, his eyes sting with the glare of the lights. There are people in the room, but he's decidedly alone. 

"Mr. Stump." 

He looks up. The doctor's arms are folded across the desk, his face thin, pinched, his fingers needle-like. 

"You may go in." 

The door stands beside Patrick, leaning over him like a King Cobra. "Can I have my gift?" 

The doctor frowns, but holds up a transparent plastic bag. The notebook looks considerably worse for wear having been swabbed for invisible ink and searched for blades, its pages sticking out at odd angles and its cover bent, but Patrick's just grateful they didn't burn it as soon as he placed it in front of them. He clutches it tight as the doctor presses the button and the door handle lights green. 

Pete is laid out on the bed, a cannula in his hand a bandage around his head. It sends a chill to Patrick's core - but the worst is yet to come. 

He touches his fingers to Pete's hand, fitting their palms together and feeling Pete's warmth, his comfort. Their wedding rings were impounded - Patrick has no proof of their past but the splitting sensation in his chest. He wants nothing more than to climb in beside Pete and hold him tight for their last few moments. Pete's lips are chapped, greying, but Patrick leans to kiss him anyway, to hold on to the illusion before it shatters in front of him. 

"No kisses," the man behind the glass says into the mic. All Patrick gets is a half-second of Pete's bottom lip between his own, soft and sweet as home. Then, Pete's eyes open. 

Swallowing back tears, Patrick gives him the sunniest grin he can muster. "Hey, honey," he whispers, "it's only me." 

For a glorious moment, Patrick sees the light of recognition in Pete's eyes, the smile he'd show Patrick each morning when they woke up next to each other. Then it's gone. 

"Who are you?" he says. 

Patrick knew it would hurt. He underestimated just how much. "I'm Patrick," he says, his voice shaking and his vision blurred, "I'm your husband." 

Pete's eyebrows knit together and he pulls his hand from Patrick's grasp. "No you're not," Pete says, "tell me where I am." 

"You're at Northwestern Memorial Hospital. In Chicago," Patrick tells him. "In - America." 

"Why am I here?" 

"They took your memories," Patrick says quietly. "Because you were dangerous. And they bombed the town, too. It’s all gone, now." 

"Why was I dangerous?" Pete looks scared, pulling at the cuffs attaching him to the bed. Patrick wants so badly to take him in his arms and stop him shaking; but Patrick's not a comfort to him anymore. 

"You - you were a genius," Patrick says, "you  _ are _ a genius. You found something that would liberate the whole country, and so they had to take it away." 

"Oh," Pete says simply. "What's wrong with your arm?" He gestures to the sling strapped around Patrick's shoulder. 

"I got shot," Patrick says. "You saved my life." 

"I don't believe you," Pete says, and why should he? Patrick is a stranger, just another man at his bedside. Even this, they'll erase once Patrick has said his goodbyes. 

"You don't have to," Patrick says, "but - I'm in love with you," he stumbles, his throat clamping tight around the words. "And - even though you won't remember this, I hope you remember that you are so loved." 

Pete's eyes are blank, unbelieving. "If you say so," he says. 

Patrick doesn't mention Max. He's not sure he could put it into words without ripping himself to pieces. He can barely comprehend how much he's lost in the last few days - he can't put Pete through that. The least he can do is make sure Pete never knows, never has to understand what it feels like to lose a child. 

"Here," Patrick says, handing Pete the notebook. "Just - keep this with you." 

"Why," Pete says, flicking through the pages. Patrick watches his fingers, misses the way they'd grace across his skin.  "What's it for?"

"I don't know. Just a token, I guess," Patrick says. It's nothing at all, nothing helpful, nothing personal - but it's a piece of Patrick, a memory of their lost lives. "Keep it with you."

"Okay," Pete says. 

"Two minutes left," the soldier announces. Patrick's composure begins to crumble away. 

"Can I hug you?" Patrick asks, his hand twitching towards Pete's. Pete simply shrugs. 

"If you really want." 

Patrick sits forward in his chair and slides his good arm around Pete's chest, dropping his face to Pete's shoulder and breathing in his scent. All he can smell is the hospital gown. 

"I love you," he whispers, just as he used to each night before they fell asleep, giggled, begrudging, moody or lustful but always,  _ always _ true. Before he pulls away, he presses a kiss underneath Pete's ear, feeling the warmth of Pete's skin beneath his lips for the final time. 

"Are you going to stay?" Pete asks as he pulls away, and there's a hope in his eyes that sends tears spilling down Patrick's face. 

"I can't," Patrick has to gulp, "I have to go." 

"Where?" 

"They're gonna take my mind, too," Patrick says. It's not strictly true - he's been deemed an enemy of the state - a subhuman, a rat finally trapped. He's been told they're trialling a criminal reform system put forward by some up-and-coming Frankenstein and he's never been more terrified. "They're gonna make me into someone else." 

Pete frowns like he cares. "I'm sorry," he says. Patrick knows there must be something left, something deep in his soul that connects him to Patrick - or perhaps Patrick's being too romantic. Love is just a chemical reaction, after all. Apparently it's reversible. 

This doesn't stop him reaching for Pete's hand, holding it tight, savouring Pete's warmth. "But whoever I am - whoever they turn me into - I'll - I'll find you. Somehow. Even if I don't know it, I'll always love you. They can't take that away. I'll find you, I promise."  

"Time's up," the soldier says. Patrick wipes his eyes, his shoulder crying out with the movement. He can barely look Pete in the eyes, can barely confront the reality that he may never see Pete again - or the reality that he will, but he won't recognise him. He's not sure which is worse. 

"I love you," he tells Pete one last time. Pete's eyes don't light like they used to - he doesn't call anything out to Patrick as he leaves, doesn't tell Patrick it's all a ruse, that of  _ course _ he remembers Patrick. Patrick doesn't look back. As soon as he shuts the door behind him, he breaks, the tears coming thick and fast. 

"Don't cry," the soldier tells him, "soon, you won't remember any of this." 

-

Patrick wipes his eyes - he knows everything, now. He knows the man in front of him is a snake, a villain, he knows only one of them will make it out of this room alive. 

“How the fuck could you do something like this,” Patrick whispers, his hands shaking with rage, “how could you fuck up our lives like that?! Where the fuck is my  _ child?!”  _

Hurley simply purses his lips, his long fingers interlocking on the table in front of him. Then, he shrugs. “What can I say - I was curious.” 

“ _ Curious?!  _ For  _ what?! _ ” Patrick shouts, his eyes wide. 

“I’m a scientist, Patrick, it’s only natural.” 

Patrick’s mouth flaps with anger he can’t quite put into words. “It’s not -  _ natural,  _ what the fuck?! You - fucking, tore our lives apart, you, you broke up my family, you wiped Pete’s mind!” 

“Oh,  _ I _ didn’t wipe Pete’s mind,” Hurley says, bitterness creeping into his tone, “they did. They stole it from me - police protocol. They sold what they wanted to and binned the rest, despite my protests. But I suppose you were enough to keep me occupied.” 

“Why did you want either of us?! What could we have possibly done to wrong you, why did you target us?!” 

Again, Hurley shrugs. “You were interesting. You weren’t an average teenager - you had prospects, vision. And Wentz, well. He was a genius. Once he came along, you were a side project.” 

“You - it was him you were stalking?” Patrick asks. 

“You didn’t think you were the special one, did you?” Hurley says lightly, “You were simple - interesting, but simple. You knew what you wanted and you pursued it. Wentz - now,  _ there _ was a mind I would have liked. How complex, how nuanced - he put you to shame, Patrick.” 

“That’s - insane, why the fuck would you -” 

“He would’ve been pride of my collection. Still - you made a good project.” 

“So you - you  _ bought  _ me?” 

“Oh, yes. I was rewarded handsomely for the information I’d given to the military about your whereabouts. You were only dangerous in your beliefs - I was interested to explore if I could change them.” 

“That’s - that’s -” 

“Ingenious?” Hurley says, sitting back in his chair and toying with the gun. “Yes, I thought so too. And look at you! I couldn’t have been more successful! Your charisma, your charm, your determination - look where it got you! You’ll be president, soon, you’ve millions to your name, the country falls at your feet. Isn’t it amazing what better use you’ve been put to?” 

Patrick’s cheeks heat with shame at what he is - what he  _ was  _ \- and old guilt burns in his chest. “But I’ve found you out,” he protests, “you failed.” 

“Oh yes,” Andy says, “how clever you were to sneak around with your ex-husband as if I didn’t know exactly where you were and what you were doing, how very intelligent of you to copy my file as if I wouldn’t notice, how arrogant you’ve been to assume you’ve outwitted me. I’ve been a step ahead of you for months.” 

“So why am I still here? Why haven’t you taken action already?” 

Hurley smiles slightly. “You assume this is the first time you’ve come close to figuring it out. It’s much more fun to watch you struggle - makes for much better viewing, once I take away your memories.” 

“You - you watch them?” 

At this, Hurley lets out a laugh like shattered glass. “Of course,” he says, “I am a collector. Human lives are my muse.” He rises from his chair and wanders around the table towards Patrick, the gun clasped in his hand. 

Patrick feels nauseous. “So you just - keep them? And watch them when you feel like it?” 

“Yes, it’s turned into a rather unique hobby. Do you know how often I live your life for you,” he asks, moving closer to Patrick and leaning down to look him in the eye. “Do you know how many times I’ve watched your wedding, the birth of your child? How many times I’ve fed your baby and fucked your husband?” 

Bile rises in Patrick’s throat and tears spill from his eyes. “That’s sick, that’s -” 

Hurley grabs Patrick’s chin, his nails digging into Patrick’s jaw and his teeth bared in Patrick’s face. “Wentz moans so wonderfully, doesn’t he?” 

Patrick shoves him away, raising his hands to cover his face. “You’re a monster,” he breathes, “you’re a - a psycho -” 

“You say that like it should bother me,” Hurley says, “but I’ve lived a hundred lives. I know every quirk of human character, I know every secret you’ve ever kept and every lie you’ve ever told. I know you better than you know yourself. Now - you’d better do as I say or I’ll put a bullet in your skull.” 

Patrick feels the barrel of the gun slip underneath his chin, pushing his face up to stare into Hurley’s grey eyes. “I don’t care,” he says, “I’d rather die.” 

“I can hurt you, Patrick,” Hurley snarls, “would you like to know what I did to your baby?” He shoves Patrick in the chest and Patrick falls from the couch, his head cracking against the glass of the coffee table. His vision spins - he’s losing already. 

He looks around for any kind of weapon - all he can see is a coaster and a box of tissues. The lamp lies out of reach and Hurley advances fast. 

“I’ve always been fascinated by the way humans bleed,” Hurley muses, “shall we see what happens if I shoot you in that oversized belly of yours?” 

“You wouldn’t kill me,” Patrick cries, praying it’s true, “I’m your pet project.” 

“Oh, you wouldn’t die,” Hurley hisses, “I’m a doctor, remember?” 

“So am I.” 

Pete’s voice is a holy blessing as it rings around the room, his figure illuminated by the light flooding through the doorway. Patrick’s heart leaps, until Hurley turns the gun on him. 

“Stay where you are,” Hurley growls, “how the fuck did you get in?” 

“You should have fired Joe Trohman,” Pete spits, “he gave me the alarm codes. Looks like you made a mistake.” 

“My only mistake,” Hurley replies, “was keeping you alive.” 

The two gunshots split Patrick’s head in two, echoing around the room one after the other. Pete dives to the floor and Patrick scrambles to him, lumbering awkwardly on all fours and praying Andy’s a poor shot. 

“Pete,” Patrick says, grabbing Pete by the shoulder and catching his dazed gaze, “Pete, are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Pete breathes, “Patrick -” 

Patrick turns to see the gun pointed in his face and shoves himself away from it, pushing Pete with him. When they hit the wall, it’s all Patrick can do to cover Pete’s body with his own. 

“Is this the hill you’d like to die on?” Hurley asks, the gun still aimed at Patrick’s chest. “Move aside, and I might spare you some pain.” 

“No,” Patrick says. “You won’t take him from me again.” 

Hurley scoffs. “Don’t you remember who you are, Patrick? You’re a selfish, greedy, arrogant bastard. You don’t need him - you need money, power. You can still have that.” 

“I’m not,” Patrick protests, “I’m not him.” 

“I simply worked with what was already there inside you,” Hurley says, “you can’t get away from it. It’s who you are.” 

“No,” Patrick says. Pete’s hand rests on his hip, squeezing a little as Patrick falters. Patrick tries to think straight, tries to imagine what  _ he  _ might do, the other, better Patrick, and comes up empty. He’s not brave enough, not strong enough - but he might just be desperate enough. 

With a surge of energy, Patrick lunges forward, ploughing into Andy’s legs and sending them both tumbling to the floor. Patrick doesn’t know how to fight, barely knows how to throw a punch, so he simply grabs Andy by the hair and slams his head into the floor. This is much more effective than Patrick was expecting - Andy falls limp, lifeless, the gun slipping from his hand. 

Patrick breathes hard as he climbs off Andy and collects himself. He stares at the body in front of him, his own body aching where Andy’s nails sunk into his skin. 

“Fucking hell,” Pete says, “Is he dead?” 

Patrick has no idea what he hopes the answer to that is - he grabs for Andy’s wrist and puts a finger to his veins, trying to feel a pulse beyond the pounding in his ears. “I - uh, I can’t tell.” 

Pete’s soon beside him, taking Andy’s wrist and checking for himself. “Nah. He’s alive,” Pete says. Patrick doesn’t know why that fills him with relief. 

He reaches for the gun and picks it up gingerly, feeling the weight of it, the power he grasps in his hands. He supposes his past self would have used these all the time - now, it feels alien to him. Nevertheless, he puts the barrel to Andy’s chest, needs to end this once and for all, put this to rest. He closes his eyes and puts his finger to the trigger. 

After a few, long moments, Pete’s hand touches his thigh. “You don’t have to,” he says quietly. 

Patrick’s lets the gun fall to the floor. “He would’ve been able to,” Patrick says, “Old Patrick.” 

Pete shakes his head and shifts closer, his hands snaking to Patrick’s waist. “You’re not him,” Pete says, “and that’s okay.” 

“Why did you come here,” Patrick asks, “why did you change your mind?” 

Pete’s eyes are sad, but his mouth holds a gentle smile. “I watched our last memory. The one where you gave me this,” he says, patting the pocket where his notebook hides. “I - it was -” 

Patrick can only watch as Pete begins to break down, his face collapsing and his hands grasping at Patrick. Patrick takes him in his arms and holds him tight, his heart still racing and his eyes stinging with compassionate tears. Patrick’s not good at comfort, but he gives it his best shot. “It’s okay,” he mumbles, “we’re okay now.” 

“Yeah,” Pete says, pulling back and taking a deep breath, “yeah, we are.” 

“I paid him back, by the way,” Patrick says, “I tried to make things right, I promise, I -” 

“I know,” Pete says, “I believe you, I’m sorry I made you leave, I’m sorry I - I’m just sorry.” 

“Me too,” Patrick says with a huff of a laugh, “thanks for coming back.” 

Pete’s eyes still shine with tears and his hands don’t relinquish their hold. “Patrick,” he says softly, “who’s Max?” 

It’s all Patrick can do not to bawl all over again, the image of their tiny baby making his heart crack in his chest. He can barely say it - he looks up at Pete, nodding slightly. 

“He’s - he’s -” Pete stumbles, “oh, god, Patrick.” 

Patrick simply gathers Pete in his arms once more, closing his eyes and soaking up Pete’s warmth, his safety, his comfort. 

“What do we do now?” Pete asks, releasing his hold and looking Patrick in the face. Patrick shakes his head. 

“No idea,” he says, “do we wait ‘til he wakes up? I mean - he’s the only one that might know more about our lives, he could tell you who you were.” 

Pete looks down at Hurley’s body, lying still and infuriatingly peaceful. “Is it worth it, though?” 

Patrick watches him, sees his brilliant mind turning over their options. “Well - it’s your past, Pete. It’s up to you.” 

“But he’s a monster,” Pete says, “he’ll only lie to me - bribe me or whatever. It’d only give him more power. He doesn’t have the memories, what’s the use?” 

“If that’s what you want,” Patrick says, reaching for Pete’s hand. Pete closes the distance, squeezing Patrick’s fingers. “I guess that’s it, then. We can’t stay here. Or at least - I can’t.” 

Pete gazes at him, stroking his thumb over the back of Patrick’s hand. “You could still be president,” Pete says, “you could pay Hurley off, carry on as you are.” 

Patrick shakes his head. The thought of another speech makes his want to vomit - he’ll never be the man who could work an audience again. He’s so, so tired. “I don’t wanna do this anymore,” he says quietly, “I don’t think I can. What are you gonna do?” 

Pete shrugs. “Go back to the surgery, I guess,” he says, and Patrick’s face falls a little. “Or,” Pete adds.

“Or?” 

“Or - I’ll go with you,” Pete says, “I mean - I’ve not got many ties, so.” 

“Me neither,” Patrick replies, “we could just - get out. Start over - for real, this time. We could find our parents, maybe.” 

“I’d like that,” Pete nods, his mouth forming a small smile. 

“But, like - do you think our past selves would, like, approve of that? Just - running away? What if we could make more of a difference, what if -” 

“We’re not them,” Pete tells him, and he’s right, always right, “we’re not revolutionaries anymore. They didn’t get their happy ending - but maybe we could have ours.” 

“How do we get out, though? I’m a public figure, people will spot us, we’ll never get past the border, Pete, we’ll just get caught and wiped all over again -” 

“Patrick,” Pete soothes, motioning for him to slow down, “you’re a billionaire. You can pay anyone to do anything. We can take my car and ditch it once we’re out of state. We can get new passports, new identities. Go somewhere with no signal, no internet. We can disappear.” 

“You’ve thought about this a lot,” Patrick laughs, but Pete just nods. 

“I watch a lot of crime dramas,” he says. “Now - are you sure about this? Because once we go for it, there’s no going back.” 

Patrick bites his lip, thinking of everything he’ll leave behind - he can’t think of anything he’ll miss. Running away can’t possibly be worse than staying. “Yeah,” he nods, “yeah, I’m sure. Fuck it.” 

-

Three hours later, Illinois is behind them. 

They’ve removed all trace of themselves from the house - security footage wiped, cameras disabled, every single electronic device cleared and all accounts signed out of. Patrick had managed not to cry down the phone to Joe - the same could not be said for Pete and Joanna. They’d said their goodbyes, made their vague promises, and walked from the house. 

Patrick has three bags filled solely with money. He’s not sure how much is there - he only hopes it’s enough. It’s all cash - his bank accounts will be terminated once they deem him missing or dead. It’ll be days before anyone comes looking for him. They have time, so for now, they have hope. 

The night sky is so much clearer away from the city, the stars crawling across the sky as they head for the northern border. There’s no crowds, no photographers, no camera crew. Just he and Pete, their hands clasped together and Pete’s head on Patrick’s shoulder. He’s fast asleep - Patrick’s never seen him so at peace.  

He’s on the brink of love - but this time, he’ll do it right. He’s not a brave revolutionary or a dashing politician - he’s a man in awe of the stars above, identical to all those before him yet utterly unique, too.

He’s never felt so free. 

  
  
  
  
  



	16. Epilogue

The town is as he’d expect - modest, shrivelled, shivering. The buildings reach for one another, staircases wound around them like ribcages, creaking under Patrick’s feet. 

Pete tells him not to worry. He’s told Patrick the same thing at each wrong town, wrong flat, wrong person. He grounds Patrick’s reeling mind with a hand wrapped tight around Patrick’s own, his pulse throbbing through his fingertips and the shadow of his lips pressed to Patrick’s cheek. 

They’ve had almost a year to prepare for this moment, yet Patrick still isn’t quite ready. This is the last apartment - if it’s not the right one, all the searching has been for nothing.

Pete knocks on the door when Patrick daren’t. He breathes into the scarf around his face, each pull of his lungs aching with the frozen air. 

She opens the door. The face he’s seen so many times, in so many different states, the shoulders he’s cried on and the arms he’s laid in crash over him as she looks at him. He lowers his scarf. 

“Hey, mum.” 

She’s crying before he can say any more, her arms flung around him and her hands stroking the back of his head. She sobs pet names into his shoulder and presses kisses to his cheeks, she holds him in the safety of her arms and doesn’t let him go. 

He ends up babbling his reasons, his excuses for what she may have seen of him on the news, on the billboards, but she kisses him silent. She tells him she’ll love him no matter what - and he believes her. 

She hugs Pete, too, tells him she’s missed him, missed  them,  and Patrick’s not sure he could feel any more joyous than in this moment, watching his lost mother and the love of his life hug and kiss and throw him enraptured glance. But Patrick is wrong. 

The child’s voice is like windchimes. It carries from the doorway, a birdsong, a choir. Patrick doesn’t have to ask - he knows. He sees Pete in the child’s hair, in the gold of his eyes, in the tone of his skin. He sees everything they lost standing before them. 

The tears they shed are borne of pure elation, the kiss he presses to Pete’s lips one of perfect relief. Pete holds him close as they crouch, smile, worship. They’re strangers, but it doesn’t seem to matter as Max wraps his tiny fingers around Patrick’s hand, his wondrous eyes lighting like fireflies. 

His mother says her silence was the price of the boy, and so here they are - safe, sound, secret. Patrick hopes Max never understands what happened to his parents, only that they were absent, and then they weren’t. Patrick had known love to be a labour, a battle won or lost, but as he sees their little boy smile, he learns how effortless it can be.

It will take time to become the sons they would have been, the fathers they should have been, but for now, bathed in his mother’s smiles and his son’s laughter, it’s more than enough. 

They tell him they love him - and it’s the truth. 

  
  



End file.
